In The Name of Honor Part 1 Secrets and Lies
by Marianne H. Stillie
Summary: The secrets and lies of the past conspire to change the present and future for Claire and Lord John Grey.
1. Chapter 1

Title: In The Name of Honor - Part 1 Secrets and Lies – Chapter 1

Author: Marianne H. Stillie

Categories/Genres: Fantasy; Drama; Hurt/Comfort; Romance

Rating: T

Pairing: Claire and Lord John Grey

Summary: The secrets and lies of the past conspire to change the present and future for Claire and Lord John Grey.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places for the Outlander Novels are the property of Diana Gabaldon, Bantam Books, The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks are intended. Previously unrecognized characters, places and this story are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Archive: Please do not archive anywhere without the author's permission.

Copyright (c) 2012 Marianne H. Stillie

Author's Note: This story begins an AU in place of the probable events after the end of "An Echo in the Bone".

* * *

In The Name of Honor

Part 1 – Secrets and Lies

Chapter 1

It had been decades along with two centuries since I awoke feeling like a lowly sleep-deprived first year intern. I'd spent most of the previous afternoon and evening hours since Jamie and John Grey had exited the house with a contingent of British soldiers after them waiting and listening. Sleep had come in fits and starts, what little there was of it during the dark night and into the somber dawn.

I had made quick work of my sister-in-law Jenny Murray who had suddenly appeared on Lord John's doorstep just after he, Jamie and Willie had taken off. My brief explanation of the events since Jamie had stepped into my bedroom along with minimal details about her newly discovered nephew seemed to satisfy her. Jenny was rarely surprised by her younger brother's escapades. I knew she'd find out what she wanted to know from Jamie eventually. Even though I was his wife, it wasn't my place to explain his secrets.

Only after I'd deposited her with Fergus and family at the printshop as Jamie had written was his plan, did I allow myself a much-deserved attack of nerves, which I soothed with a good helping of John's best brandy. Far from drunk, I did manage to fall into an exhausted sleep.

The pounding on the front door downstairs finally broke through my muddled brain when Mrs. Figg's insistent knocking and strident voice outside my door merged with the former. As I struggled into my robe and slippers and staggered out to the hall, I wondered which one of the men I'd been waiting for all night had finally come home.

I knew it wouldn't be Jamie as much as I wanted it to be. That first euphoria at seeing him alive, feeling his arms and body close and solidly real had moderated only slightly. For those too brief minutes, I welcomed the rush of love and life only he could give me. But his years of being a fugitive of one kind or another would prevent his return. He would play it safe, as he must. I knew he could still get into trouble, but he had lived such a charmed life since Culloden, I didn't worry too much.

William was the male I was most afraid for. His shame and rage, at Jamie and at John, were running deep in his young body. The damage he'd done to the woodwork, balustrade and chandelier was nothing to what I had sensed he was capable of as he ran out of the house.

Remembering just in time that the banister had been one of the victims of my stepson's righteous rage, I carefully hurried down the staircase, wanting all the noise to be John. I'd waited all night, listening to every little sound, hoping to hear his footsteps. His calm soldier's strength would be a starting point that I could lean on.

In the doorway, a squat pockmarked sergeant stood at rigid attention, his once pristine red uniform a collage of mud and grass stains. I swept an arm across my head, attempting to tame the bush of long, curly hair that kept falling into my face.

With a respectful bow, the age-marked soldier said, "Lady John, I regret to inform you that your husband, Lord John Grey, has been injured. He was found just after dawn beside a stream outside the city."

"Injured? How?" My heart was in my mouth, petrified that Jamie had shot John in the rush of flight. But that was impossible. Jamie would never hurt John. Though on opposite sides in the war, their friendship ran much deeper.

The sergeant cleared his throat, a tightly controlled expression on his pale face. "Lieutenant Colonel Grey has been severely beaten." The harsh tone of voice was that of a veteran enlisted man angered at the bad treatment of a respected officer.

My years of triage training snapped into place as I asked, "Where is he now?"

Half turning, the sergeant pointed at a horse drawn wagon in front of the house. Two young soldiers sat on the seat while a third held the reins of two horses. "We'll carry him in for you."

"Yes, please." I watched as the two on the wagon, the sergeant and the fourth soldier went around to the back of the wagon. Hearing the unmistakable crunch of glass being ground into the wooden floor by heavy footfalls, I said to the woman who had come up behind me, earing"Mrs. Figg, please have them bring Lord John into the dining room." I didn't wait for her acknowledgement.

William's orderly, Mrs. Figg and I had cleaned up the broken chandelier pieces the night before as best we could. My thick cloth slippers dragged stray slivers we had missed into the dining room. They made tiny scrapes in the highly polished wood floor while I wrapped the ornate crystal bowl in the delicate lace tablecloth and plopped it and the multi-branched silver candlesticks beneath a closed window. I stood there waiting as they carried John in, a heavy wool cloth covering his face.

"Please be careful. He may have internal injuries." The four faces were either puzzled or blank as they lowered their blanket-wrapped burden carefully onto the dark wood table.

Pulling back the stained cloth, I gagged. The horribly battered face that had been hidden was something out of nightmare. The blood on the material was only a small part of what was heavily streaked through John's long light hair, in his ears and down his neck, soaking the pristine white linen shirt he had put on the morning before.

With a signal from the sergeant, the three young soldiers went back outside. "If you know of a doctor, we'll go for him," the older man said kindly.

"I'm a physician. I'll take care of him." Taking my eyes away from John's almost unrecognizable face, I said, "Thank you for bringing him home."

The sergeant's mouth twitched. "We know about the rebel who took Lord John hostage. We know it was him that did this. We'll find him and take care of the scum." He nodded curtly then left to join his men.

"Oh God, Jamie. What have you done?" I whispered then turned to Mrs. Figg who was hovering in the doorway. "Please bring me a basin of hot water, all the clean towels you have and scissors."

Pushing away the emotional shock of the situation, my hands moved as they had learned to do in countless crises over two disparate centuries. From the various pulse points I checked on John's body, I felt fairly confident that there was no internal bleeding. His heartbeat was faster than I remembered it from the last time we shared a bed, but the physical trauma he had been subjected to would account for that. What did concern me was his shallow and struggling respiration.

I took the scissors Mrs. Figg had placed on the sideboard along with the pile of towels and basin of water. I cut away John's shirt, exposing a throat so swollen, I shuddered. A near panic rushed through me from memories of my son-in-law Roger's neck after he'd been hanged. As if the beating hadn't been enough, long, powerful fingers had tried to strangle John Grey.

One careful step at a time, I cleaned away the thick dried blood, mud and debris from John's face. I did his mouth first, exposing the splits inside and out that had bled profusely and caked his lips. Cautiously, I examined the inside of his mouth with my finger. Finding it clear, I eased his jaw open. The internal swelling from the attempted strangulation mirrored the dark discoloration around his neck. The labored movement of air in and out of his throat came in irregular gasps. There didn't appear to be any serious damage to his larynx as Roger had suffered. But the swelling was definitely impeding the airway from getting what the lungs needed to function efficiently. CPR was too aggressive for the situation. Instead I puffed air into his mouth, listening and feeling for his body's response. Unlike Roger, John's chest did move. There was an easing to his distress very briefly. I knew the only thing that would truly help would be to reduce the swelling as quickly as possible.

I started the first hot compress immediately, wrapping the thick towel all the way around John's neck. Keeping a close eye on the movement of his chest, I began to examine his other facial injuries. It was very obvious that large, strong fists had freely brutalized him. Both eyes were swollen shut, the eyeballs streaked with blood. The very crooked broken nose was oozing fresh blood from the jarring of being moved. I carefully cleaned away the blood and mucus, which seemed to help his breathing somewhat. There were two facial fractures, the one on John's right cheek so prominent I could see the imprint of knuckles.

Using the first now-cooled towel, I wiped down his face again. Placing a second hot compress around his throat, I held his nose shut and blew a series of breaths into his mouth, my hand covering his chest to feel how he responded. I kept up the rhythm until John's own breaths became noticeably easier.

In frustration, I gave up counting the contusions I could feel all over his head, hoping none of the ugly bruises was hiding a concussion or worse. The metal plate on the left side of John's scalp from the trepanation that had been done due to a head injury he'd suffered helping Brianna several years ago was a danger spot I needed to keep an eye on.

My fingers shook as I rested my hand on John's chest. I was grateful to feel his steady though still fast heartbeat. What frightened me was his continued unconsciousness and lack of response to stimuli. He had been lying outside all night. There was no way of knowing if he'd ever awakened during that time. There was so much more I needed to do to treat him. But I was alone in the house except for Mrs. Figg who had made it very clear during my short time here that anything I did in my profession was offensive to my status as the wife of an English lord.

I had treated many people in this century but never one I considered a dear friend who had been beaten so savagely by the man I loved. Even Roger hadn't been left for dead as callously as Jamie had abandoned John. I was also very afraid of what forms of brutalization I would find on the rest of John's body. In my minds eye I saw Jamie's body after what Jack Randall had done to him. That he would inflict such cruelty on another man for no apparent reason was beyond my comprehension.

Tenderly smoothing John's blood-streaked hair back from his forehead, I said, "Please, John, don't leave us." There was no response from him to my voice or my touch.

Someone in that vast hierarchy of Catholic saints and angels must have heard me and taken my words for a prayer. The front door opened with a rush and Dottie Grey called, "Uncle John? Aunt Claire?" As she stepped into the dining room, she saw me. Then her eyes went wide as she perceived the still form of her uncle on the long table. Her scream brought Mrs. Figg running in from the kitchen.

Dottie lunged toward her uncle but was caught from behind by Denzel Hunter's hands. "Uncle John!" she shrieked. "What happened?" Before I could answer, she shouted, "Do something, Aunt Claire! Don't just stand there!"

Denny came around and faced her, blocking her view of her uncle. "Dottie, dearest, please go out to my horse and bring in my bag."

Her lips quivered then lifting her eyes to her betrothed's face she took hold of her emotions. "Yes, Denny." Another look at me and at John, and she headed for the front door.

Moving up beside me, Denny placed his hand on my shoulder. "Friend Claire, what can I do?"

"I need your help, Denny. Your two good hands and your medical skill."

* * *

The mantel clock chimed the hour. The five crystal clear notes echoed eerily through the silent dining room. After counting them, I was both grateful and anxious. Grateful that John Grey was still alive at five o'clock on this overcast late May afternoon. Anxious that his son William Ransom still hadn't come home.

Leaning forward in the side chair I had placed strategically close to John's upper body, I picked up his hand and pressed my thumbnail heavily into the nail bed of his index finger. I counted the seconds precisely, hoping that this time his body would react to the focused pain - a sharp intake of breath, a muscle twitch somewhere on his body. Something to tell me he was coming out of the post-beating coma he'd fallen into. But there was nothing.

Releasing the nail bed, I ran my thumb back and forth across the back of his hand. "John!" I called in a strong, loud voice. "I need you to wake up! I know it will hurt horribly, but you must!" Again, no reaction to his name or to my voice.

As a doctor, I knew just how inadequate my description of his pain when he awoke truly was. Thanks to the medical chest he had given me, I had the one real medicine, syrup of poppy, which would ease his suffering. It was a powerful drug I had avoided using over the years. Looking at John's mutilated body, I knew I would have no other choice.

With Denny Hunter's extra pair of hands, the extensive damage to John's face had been treated with skill and care. Cleaned and sutured, the breaks in the skin had been reduced in trauma by alternating applications of leeches and garlic poultices. The remaining fumes of the very good brandy we'd used as a disinfectant lingered in the warm air of the room. Denny's sister Rachel had accompanied Dottie through Philadelphia, foraging leeches from the apothecary shops in the city. The bloated little buggers were currently at rest in a pan of clean water waiting for their next application. The livid reds and dark blues covering John's face had reduced noticeable shades.

I was keeping my fingers crossed that the poultices would take care of any colonies of germs that had taken hold while John had been outside during the night. The young women had also come back with a bushel basket of garlic strings. Adding to her displeasure over the slimy leeches, Mrs. Figg had let it be known that the overpowering stench of the garlic Dottie and Rachel had chopped, soaked in hot water and wrapped in the soft muslin they'd purchased at a dry goods store per my instructions was the last straw. To her credit, Dottie let loose with a string of expletives she had probably learned from her three older brothers. Rachel, the Quaker peacemaker, told the older woman that Lord John's life depended on their efforts, and she should be helping, not criticizing. Their joint entreaties had apparently sunk into the cook's stubborn head. She was as sweet as pie when she brought each batch of poultices into the dining room. She even helped me tie a thin strip of linen around John's head after I'd finished straightening his broken nose to hold a garlic-and-honey-laced poultice in place. I thanked her profusely as I saw John's nostrils working more efficiently to take in the precious oxygen he needed.

My fingers had made a careful assessment of the two facial fractures. By some miracle, Jamie's knuckles had managed not to do excessive damage. The multiple fine breaks would heal in place on their own with delicate tending.

John's struggling respiration was the major problem. He had stopped breathing twice while Denny and I had worked on him. The hot compresses and thick applications of leeches had reduced only a negligible amount of the swelling. Jamie could have easily snapped John's neck instead of trying to strangle him. Somehow the difference between a quick death and a slow one was quite insignificant at the moment, and added to my disquietude at the possible state of Jamie's mind.

Along with a pot of yarrow tea and several dishes of assorted kitchen detritus that I hoped would yield some viable penicillin, I had started an infusion of elderflowers and thyme steeping in the cookhouse soon after Denny had arrived. The herb was from one of the glass jars in the wooden chest; the elderflowers from one of the gauze bags I had purchased only days before. I was being brazenly optimistic that the botanicals would do internally what the leeches and compresses were doing externally. The only flaw in my treatment plan was that John had to be awake to drink the brew.

The lack of fresh fluids in his body was an equally grave concern. Along with infection, the shock, if it developed, would kill him, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. This was another of those times I envisioned all the medical tools I had abandoned back in 1968. Something as mundane as an airway tube would have helped John's breathing tremendously until the swelling in his throat eased. I didn't have one. I also didn't have the means to give him intravenous fluids. What I had access to in this relatively primitive time would have to be enough along with my skills. Sighing deeply, I wished for a huge dose of miraculous prayers in my bag of eighteenth century medical tricks.

Picking up a piece of folded muslin from the supplies Denny and I had arranged on the sideboard, I moistened it generously with the water-honey mixture from a small pitcher. Leaning over John, I gently patted his swollen sutured lips. I held my breath, waiting and hoping that he might seek more of the fluid his body was starving for. Instead, the precious drops puddled at the corners of his mouth then slid down through the dense blond stubble on his chin disappearing into his neck. In frustration, I collapsed into the chair and buried my face in my hands.

"Thee needs this, Friend Claire." Instead of a hand on my shoulder, Denny held a steaming cup of Mrs. Figg's exceptionally strong tea close to my face.

The sharp aroma of whiskey trickled through the steam and made my nose tingle as I lowered my hands. I took the cup and smiled up at him gratefully. "Thank you. And where did you find the whisky?"

"Courtesy of Mrs. Figg," Denny grinned. "It is her way of apologizing for her past behavior toward thee."

"There is a God," I sighed and took two long swallows of the laced tea.

"And He works in very mysterious ways sometimes," Denny added in a tone of voice heavy with doubt and questioning.

I knew the gentle, highly principled Quaker was being solicitous of my feelings. My emotions toward my husband had become less charitable as the hours passed. "Say what you're thinking, Denny. I've already posed the questions to myself."

"I know Friend James has lived a very violent life. But this?" and he motioned toward John. "A simple fist fight between two men is not unusual. What he has done to other parts of Friend Grey's body speaks of a terrible rage. To beat a man in such a way to cause the maximum of pain and suffering is deranged."

In his knowledge and experience, Denzel Hunter was very close to the truth. That he hadn't added the words "attempted murder" did little to change the reality of Jamie's deed. His savaging of John's genitals had shocked both of us when we had seen his body fully naked. Only a sadist with a great deal of suppressed rage would do such a thing. Obviously, Jamie had not, as I'd come to believe, put his old personal hatred of John's contradictory nature behind him. The why of my husband's sudden reversion to his traumatic past was a mystery after all the years of friendship between them.

Denny was patiently waiting for my response. "Something must have happened after they left here," was all I could lamely come up with.

Pulling his professional neutrality back into place, Denny said, "Yes, well. The broken ribs should heal cleanly as long as our patient is kept to complete bed rest."

I nodded, questioning again the wisdom of the strapping Denny and I had done to John's ribcage. Due to the level of rib damage we suspected on both sides of his chest, he needed the strapping in case he woke and began thrashing about in extremis. I was also concerned that the tight binding was making his breathing even more difficult. Six of one, as they say.

"We won't know if the severe back bruising with its signs of possible hemorrhaging over the kidney areas indicates damage to those organs until Friend Grey is functioning again," Denny added clinically. "As for the genitals, leeches can do only so much if there is permanent damage there."

A shuddering wave of anxiety rushed through me. Despite his opposing nature, John was as prideful in his manhood as Jamie was in his. The two instances of direct intimacy between us had shown me that. The depressing ramification of Denny's clinical prognosis forced me back into my physician's persona.

"Now that John is bathed and wrapped in fresh linen, do you think the four of us can carry him upstairs? I want to get him into his own bed. It will be more comfortable for him, and for each of us as we monitor him. Until he's awake and his breathing is stabilized, he can't be left alone."

Denny nodded and was about to speak when we heard a growing commotion from the backyard where Dottie and Rachel had been taking in the freshly washed towels they'd hung out to dry earlier. After we'd discovered John's intimate injuries, we had agreed that Dottie should be spared such private knowledge of her uncle's condition. Unlike Rachel, she was still too new to the realities of Denny's profession. There was also the deep familial relationship between them with John being her godfather as well as her immediate male relative in place of her father who was an ocean away.

Heavy boots ran across the wood floor muffled by the Turkey runner, the sound becoming more strident as it approached. Suddenly William burst into the dining room. I immediately took in the condition of his badly disheveled clothing reeking of smoke, liquor and a very familiar scent I'd encountered regularly in this century. It was the musky odor of male sexual activity from a brothel.

Looking frantically at the supine, motionless form of the man he honored as his only living parent, he shouted, "What's happened to my father, Mother Claire?"

Holding my hand hard against his chest, I said firmly, "Please don't touch him, Willie. Get yourself cleaned up and in fresh clothes then I'll explain."

He was about to push by me when Denny pressed his shoulder into William's chest from the other side. Considering how much taller and stronger my stepson was, Denny kept a firm hold on him until he calmed down.

Squaring his shoulders like the trained officer he was, William backed up a pace. "Yes, of course." With a long, lingering glance at John Grey, he turned on his heel and left the room.

* * *

Denny with his sister and William, partnered with Dottie, carried my blanket-wrapped patient cautiously up each step of the thankfully straight staircase. Handling him as if he were a delicate piece of crystal that would shatter at the slightest breath, William and Denny lifted John in his cocoon of white linen from the blanket to his waiting bed. Checking to make sure he hadn't stopped breathing with the movement, I covered him with a light quilt. Fussing, I folded the rich green silk material back, leaving his shoulders exposed.

Without planning, a chorus of five emphatic exhales was released.

William pulled the chair by the window up beside John's bed and took his father's hand in both of his. It came as a pleasing surprise to me at how easily I could read Willie's emotions in his striking blue cat eyes – worry, love, fear, and a bit of something I couldn't interpret. It was the first very telling difference of character between him and his biological father I had seen, and that was to the good. My hand came to rest supportively on his shoulder while my eyes continued to watch John's chest move shallowly against the thick layer of pillows, barely stirring the light material of his nightshirt.

At the foot of the bed, Dottie and Rachel were arranged in a phalanx of waiting guardians with Denny between them. "I will be at the inn if thee needs me, Friend Claire. If all is well, I will stop by tomorrow."

"Thank you again, Denny," I smiled then went back to watching John breathe.

Kissing both his sister and his fiancé tenderly on the cheek, he left the room.

Dottie moved to the opposite side of the bed and took her uncle's other hand. Choking back her tears, she said softly in her recovered Quaker speech, "Thee will recover, Uncle John. Thee must, so thee can give me away at my wedding next month. That's what Denny and I had come to tell thee." On the last word, she lost her struggle and the tears came. Looking at me pleadingly, she asked, "Does thee think he can hear me, Aunt Claire?"

"When a person is unconscious from illness or injury, it's always good to talk to them. It keeps them connected to us," I answered encouragingly.

Smiling brightly, she said, "When it is my turn to watch over my uncle, I shall read to him. I know he won't care which book I choose, within reason of course. He has always said he loves my sweet voice." Kissing the back of John's hand she placed it carefully on the coverlet then waited in the doorway. "Is thee coming, Rachel?"

"I will in a moment, dear sister."

Into the silence Willie and I had become lost in as we hovered close to John, Rachel's clear, soft voice said, "Mrs. Figg is preparing a hearty supper of oyster bisque, pork pie and peach cobbler. If thee both choose to remain up here, I will gladly prepare a tray."

"We'll let you know, Rachel. Thank you," I said.

With one last look at John, William and me, she inclined her head and closed the bedroom door behind her.

"It was that fucking traitor who did this," Willie stated without preamble or question.

"Yes. And before you rush off looking for Jamie Fraser to draw and quarter him, I beg you to hold your temper. Your father needs you right now, and so do I."

William looked at me for several long moments. The ravening anger he had shown yesterday at finding out the truth about his paternity was still there. But he had heard the pleading in my voice. In those ponderous seconds, he made a choice. "What can I do for my father and for you?"

Drawing up a stool, I sat beside Willie. "What do you know about your father's medical history? What types of injuries has he suffered both on and off the battlefield?"

I could see his thoughts turn inward recalling the family history John must have told him. "Papa never mentioned any injuries when he was growing up at Argus House with Uncle Hal, or later after Grandfather Grey was murdered."

I gulped, "Murdered?"

William's mouth quirked in a short laugh. "I'm sure father will tell you the whole story if you ask. The family honor and title have been restored so the old scandal has been erased."

"I'll keep that in mind." With a definitive throat clearing, I motioned for Willie to get on with answering my question. His attention to detail was a definite trait he'd learned from his adopted father.

"The first time Papa broke his left arm he was sixteen. It wasn't truly a battlefield. That came later. He was serving with Uncle Hal's regiment, in Scotland I believe."

I worked hard to control my smile at the memory of my first encounter with the very young Lord John Grey. "It _was_ Scotland, and the battle of Prestonpans was two days later."

"How do you know that?" he asked, the blue eyes widening.

"It was in the Carryarick Pass that I met your father for the first time."

"You've known him that long? How amazing." William's curiosity to know more about that meeting was clear on his face.

Swiftly changing the subject, I asked, "You said it was the _first_ time John's left arm was broken? There was a second?"

The curiosity changed to very solemn lines on his distinctive face. "Yes, at Crefeld in Prussia. Papa took charge of an artillery position when the officer in command was killed. He and his crew fought bravely against the French until the cannon exploded. It was later proved to have been a defective barrel. Papa was seriously wounded, his left arm badly broken and his chest riddled with metal pieces from the gun. He nearly died. After the field hospital, he was recuperating for several months before he could return to duty."

"Are any of the metal fragments still in his chest?"

"It took months, but the last piece the surgeon couldn't reach finally worked its way out. Is that important?"

"Yes, very." I sighed in relief. "Any other injuries?"

"A nasty cut on his thigh during the Plains of Abraham campaign in Quebec."

John's soldier's body was a littered minefield of past injuries much like Jamie's. Letting go of my physiological observation before it expanded, I mused, "No head injuries except for the one he sustained during his little adventure with your sister."

An odd silence then a very hesitant question, "My sister?"

When would you ever learn to think before you opened your mouth, Beauchamp? There was no help for it now. "Do you remember the tall red-haired young woman you met in Wilmington two years ago?"

"On the docks? Mrs. MacKenzie?" William asked in surprise.

"Brianna is my daughter; your half-sister."

The surprise eclipsed into grimness. "His child." Somehow the sound of those two simple words evoked a world of hatred toward Jamie.

My normal self would have quickly stepped in to defend Jamie as I had when Willie questioned me yesterday about his mother and the man he had just learned actually sired him. The images of John's battered body from today kept me silent. There were some things that couldn't be justified by excuses.

The impeccable English manners that had been inculcated into William Ransom came out to correct his coldness. "I apologize for my harsh words, Mother Claire. Whatever Fraser is, he is still your husband."

Graciously, I said, "Thank you for your apology. I do understand, William. Jamie has always had a hot temper, but this is something so unlike him I don't know how to explain it. He simply would never hurt your father. They have been friends for too long." Even as I said the words, I realized how ridiculous they were with John lying broken and comatose in his bed.

"His friendship has taken a strange turn." The way his jaw muscles were clenched told me his mind was in frenzied thought contrary to the gentle way he was still holding his father's hand.

In his brooding, he wanted answers that I couldn't give him. I almost preferred the enraged William to this. I knew how to deal with the anger from long experience. But there was no sensible response to his observation. That he retained his trust in me was the important thing right now. John's life depended on my continued place in this household in my primary capacity as physician. Explaining Jamie would have to wait – if I ever could.

William's implacable eyes on me made me take a questioning pause. His anxious voice asked, "You won't stop taking care of Papa because of him?"

I suppose the cold pronoun usage was better than Willie calling Jamie the fucking traitor. "I won't leave your father as long as he needs me."

His apprehension relieved, he was about to say something else then changed his mind. Another John Grey habit he'd learned growing up.

Over the next hours, William and I completed turning his father's bedroom into a sickroom. The dresser was cleared to accommodate the medical supplies from the dining room sideboard.

My stepson watched intently as I replaced the cooled compress around John's throat with a hot one. I replaced the various facial poultices, pleased to see no signs of infection so far. His forehead was slightly warm so I put a cool compress there to make him more comfortable. All the while I went about my ministrations, I vocalized my medical commentary keeping technical terminology to a minimum so William would feel a part of his father's care. I also wanted to instill a streak of hope in him that he wouldn't lose the only father he'd known. Despite what I knew of John's condition, that hope made me feel more optimistic.

I needed to check the genital swelling but decided to wait until later when I was alone with my patient. Dottie wasn't the only family member I wanted to spare the sight of John's savaged body. Another treatment of leeches could wait. I did show Willie how to start John breathing again if he suffered an apnea episode.

Seated at the small table by the empty hearth, we shared a generous tray of Mrs. Figg's delicious supper that included fresh rolls, butter and a bottle of wine. Quite naturally, William talked and I listened. Even at rest, I could see the fury from the day before at the revelation of his offensive status as a bastard. The control he was exerting to keep it tightly repressed was amazing in one so young.

What I was also seeing was a deep revelation and the unraveling of a long-held belief. The berserk violence that had always been attributed to a Fraser ready to explode was nowhere in sight now with William. Could it be it was the MacKenzie in Jamie and his sister that was the true source of it? Everything I knew of Leoch pointed that way. Brian Fraser and old Lord Lovet had been Highland Scots through and through but with very different temperaments than the wildly arrogant MacKenzie clan.

From long experience with males, I knew William had been with a woman the night before. If that was what it took to stem the violence so be it. There were much worse outlets he could have chosen for his pain.

Willie's initial interest in Brianna had faded understandably. His stream of consciousness narrative centered completely on his family. His abiding respect and caring for his maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Dunsany, was obvious. When he spoke of his Aunt Isobel, the only mother he'd ever known, his love for her simply glowed on his face.

His grandfather had died shortly after John and Isobel were married. His father had taken over management of both Helwater and the Ellesmere properties. He had retired from active duty, unwilling to risk his life once he had such responsibilities or be away from Willie and the women for long periods of time. When the assignment as Governor of Jamaica was offered to him two years into their marriage, he was reluctant to take it but Isobel had insisted. During John's absence, Isobel had continued the family relations with the Greys for William's benefit.

John Grey's marriage to Isobel had been a magical change in the sheltered little boy's life. His regular visits to London gave him an expanded family he grabbed onto with relish. He and his three older male cousins became fast friends, enjoying all the adventures boys experience as they grew up. His new Uncle Hal and Aunt Minnie treated him like one of the crew, spoiling him as naturally as they did their own children. Little Dottie who charmed everyone the minute she smiled eventually became his second closest confidant. John's mother and stepfather accepted him just as lovingly. Growing up with the military oriented Grey men had made his choice of the army a forgone conclusion.

When Isobel had died on the way to meet his father in Jamaica, a major part of his world had collapsed. The strong love and support from his remaining parent sustained him. Finding an exciting new home at Mount Josiah Plantation had filled in a huge emptiness. John's retirement from government service gave them the time they needed to truly bond as father and son.

Never once did he mention Jamie in any context. I could only guess that he had rejected any attempt to reconcile the brief positive experiences he'd had with Jamie as a boy at Helwater and again at Fraser's Ridge against the truth of what had happened between the Scottish prisoner Alex MacKenzie and his mother.

That William had a happy family made it plain that he didn't need Jamie or the Fraser-MacKenzie connections as Brianna had. My daughter had no real family from me or from Frank. That difference explained why she had felt compelled to risk going through the stones to know Jamie in reality. For her, finding the truth was the right thing to do. For William it was not.

Being raised by British nobility was highly telling in every aspect of his personality. His strong physical resemblance to Jamie and certain genetically inherited similarities such as left-handedness and being prone to seasickness were purely chance pairings of chromosomes. Attributing Jamie's specific behaviors to Willie were foolish conclusions. They were two different human beings, not carbon copies, having lived two very different lives. As a physician from the twentieth century, I knew blood didn't always tell. In every way that counted, William Ransom was John Grey's son.

With a wistful tone in his voice, William said, "I remember that night Papa told me he and Mother Isobel were going to be married. I was in my bed clutching the beads as he explained that he hoped I would accept him as my father as well as my guardian. I said yes, not quite understanding the difference. He must have known where the beads came from but he asked anyway. I told him they were a going away present from my friend Alex. He explained to me that the people at Helwater would never understand about the Papist symbol so I must keep them hidden. To soothe my sadness, he said I could wear the beads when he and I were together. That Alex was also his friend. Papa kept his promise as he always has whether we were together at Helwater, in London with the Greys, or at Mount Josiah. Over the years I kept the beads in a box for the most part until finally they lost their meaning. I began wearing them again when I received my commission simply as a lucky charm, a talisman that would keep me safe."

There was no avoiding my question no matter what his answer might be. "Are you sorry you gave the rosary beads back to Jamie?"

The past wistfulness vanished and changed to a harsh bitterness. Without hesitation William answered, "No. Alex MacKenzie and that part of the past are as dead as my birth mother. The man I threw it to is a stranger, a nobody. The way he hurt Papa shows him to be an evil, cruel monster."

Suppressing the choking emotions I felt rising in my throat, I said, "I'm pleased that you're no longer angry with your father." And I _was_ extremely grateful for that. William was everything to John. Without him, the older man would be truly lost.

"Papa hates it when people keep secrets from him though he's very good at keeping his own. The one about my mother and Alex MacKenzie was kept out of love for me. The word "bastard" has meaning only if I allow it. I know who I really am. Giving back the beads ended the only real hold Fraser had on me. Now that they're gone, I intend to live my life as if he doesn't exist."

The deathly coldness of his words shocked me. I wanted to ask what he would do if John Grey died from his injuries. It was too dangerous a question, and I knew the answer already.

William swallowed the last spoonful of peach cobbler and scraped the bowl.

"If you'd like another helping, I'll be glad to get it for you," I smiled shakily.

"Would you? Peach cobbler is my favorite sweet but I rarely find it anywhere. Manoke would make it for me in secret. Papa hates peaches. Even the sight of them makes him ill for some reason."

There was an odd expression on his pleasant face when he spoke of the Indian cook. Had the man made advances to Willie at some time? John would never tolerate that. Unless he didn't know. But, no. My stepson didn't show any psychological signs of having been molested. His sharply sculpted face with its prominent, angular lines and his usually relaxed body housed a sweetness and gentleness that came more easily to him than it ever had to Jamie. His very heterosexual appreciation of women and of sex belied any such trauma. Manoke was part of his life at Mount Josiah, and was his friend, as Alex MacKenzie had been his friend at Helwater.

After making sure he was comfortable alone with his father in case John stopped breathing, I excused myself for a much needed visit to the necessary house. I carried the now empty tray down to the kitchen, and asked Mrs. Figg to put aside the remaining cobbler. I told her I would bring it up to William when I returned.

Under the intense light of a huge full moon, my meager rush dip light was unnecessary. I took my time crossing from the house to the privy, my mind a whirl of thoughts.

With William's singular explanation about secrets and his father, I doubted he knew John's other two secrets: his sexual preferences, and his long-standing love for Jamie.

His very cold and terse references to his dead mother were even starker than his comment to me yesterday that his mother had played the whore with her groom. In her careless, selfish desire for Jamie's body, Geneva Dunsany had given no thought to any consequences, namely, giving birth to a bastard, the spawn of a traitor and criminal. That was hardly surprising when she so callously felt she could physically use Jamie with no respect for him as a human being. If Willie knew that the cruel bitch had blackmailed Jamie into her bed by threatening his family back in Scotland, I wondered if the focus of his hate would change from Jamie to her. He had said he understood but I had doubted it then. Perhaps I was very wrong about William's level of perception and comprehension.

I was being very uncharitable toward the dead. Considering that Jamie was no innocent right now, being responsible for John's life-threatening condition. The "why" of that was haunting me more with each passing hour. The truth was overwhelming though. If it weren't for that spoiled English girl, all this misery that was hurting so many people wouldn't exist.

Finishing my call of nature, I retraced my steps back toward the house, the rush light flickering in a breath of warm wind. I needed to pull my mind out of all the emotional threads the people around me were tangled in. John Grey and his survival had to be my primary objectives this night. Seeing his body safely to another morning would take all my abilities, with some heavy prayers thrown in. I wished I had Jamie's rosary to steady and direct both my mind and my heart. The precise counting and repetitive words would be both comforting and reassuring. If only John would wake up I prayed to whatever entity might be listening.

Picking up the pace of my shadowed steps, I reminded myself that in addition to Willie's peach cobbler, I needed a fresh basin of hot water for John's throat compresses. Halfway across the yard, the notes of a choreographed human whistle floated toward me. I stopped and listened, wondering if I was hearing things. Then it came again, stronger, louder and as familiar as the last time I'd heard it over thirty years ago. It was one of the signals Jamie and his Lallybroch men had used during the Rising – _To me._

A third time and I ran to its source. As I pushed in on one side of the double barn door, the other flew open, flooding the dark interior with moonlight. The light and shadow on the big form that loomed in front of me made my heart beat faster. The rush dip went out in a whoosh of air as Jamie lifted me and engulfed my body in his arms. I let the rush light drop so I could wrap my arms around his neck. My legs around his waist were next.

Jamie's mouth was everywhere, probing and tasting each part of me not covered by clothing as well as some that were. Too breathless with long-suppressed desire, I couldn't say a word. I licked and bit and kissed him back touch for hungry touch. My lover was alive and in my arms, and that was all that mattered.

What happened next happened so fast, I missed any hint of transition in Jamie. One minute I was standing on the wooden floor again, wrapped tightly in Jamie's arms, his mouth and hands finding new entries to fondle my body. Impatiently, he hiked up my skirt so his bare cock protruding from his breeches could grind into me. The next moment he'd lifted me again then roughly put me on my back, his heavy body holding me in place on the barn floor.

My chest was having trouble taking in air, and I begged, "Please stop, Jamie. You're hurting me."

In answer he growled huskily, "I canna," and forced both his legs between mine.

I yelped loudly. In response he covered my mouth with one broad hand. With the other, he thrust his cock against my helpless flesh.

With his full weight on top of me I couldn't move or struggle. Ruthlessly, he forced his long, thick prick into my dry slit and pushed. I felt as if the floorboards would split under me. Half a dozen pounding strokes and his body went with the throbbing gouts of his seed that spurted into me. With one last burning push, he moaned loudly and collapsed limply onto me. Then, just as suddenly, he rolled away, his back to me, his post-coital panting muffled in a nearby hay bale.

In shock, I lay there, my body trembling, but not with the old welcome pleasure my husband was capable of giving me. I felt truly violated, worse than the rape I'd endured several years before. I sat up gingerly, my thigh and leg muscles in painful spasms from being used so hard. My mane of hair fell across my face, hiding Jamie from view.

Then he was on his feet, redoing his flies and settling his breeches in place on his hips. He held out a hand to me. In the most startling matter-of-fact voice, he said, "Get yourself together, Sassenach. We're leaving this place."

I stared up at him not believing I'd heard what he had just said correctly. Years ago he had used me like this, calling it his loving possession of me. This violence had nothing of love in its execution. Refusing his hand, I struggled to my feet. Smoothing my dress and straightening my stays were automatic actions after all my years in this century. What I felt, the very real trickle of my husband's semen wet on my slit and sliding down my thighs, was so intense, I began shaking again.

Ignoring the ugly word that was screaming in my head, I answered him in what I hoped was my best professional voice, "I can't leave. John needs me."

The immediate smoldering beginnings of a familiar rage on Jamie's face were shocking. In a barely controlled voice, he said, "_I_ need ye. You are my wife!"

My shock was morphing into my own anger. The level of adrenaline coursing through me made my legs so unsteady, I dropped heavily onto a hay bale. Despite the shakiness, my mind was clear enough to ask the question I needed answered more than anything, "Why did you try to kill John Grey?"

Towering over me, his teeth gritted so tightly the words came out in a whisper, "He had no right to touch ye."

Stunned, I asked, "John told you? Is that what this rape is all about? You marking your territory and reasserting your Scot's possession of me?"

"A man canna rape his own wife." He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging deep into my flesh. "Enough of this foolishness, Sassenach. We are leaving, _now_!"

The arrogant self-assurance that was so much a part of Jamie Fraser infuriated me even more. Glaring into those cold blue eyes, I didn't move. Finally, he let go. There was the merest hint of contriteness on his face, but it didn't last.

There was no holding back my own anger now that I knew the "why". "You beat an honorable, caring man almost to death for protecting me? You should be thanking John Grey for all he's done for you, for Willie, and for me."

I knew immediately that was the wrong thing to say, but I was beyond caring. Jamie's repressed rage broke wide open.

"Aye, I thanked him, for not buggering me all these years like the perfect English gentleman he is. I thanked him with my fists for condemning me to forced servitude to a bloody English lord instead of allowing me to be transported with my men, all so he could come and look at my body whenever he desired since he was too craven under that warrior's skin to take it by force. With my booted feet I thanked him for making me prey to that English slut. And I thanked him with my knees repeatedly to his cock and his balls and his filthy arse for despoiling my wife."

The shock of Jamie's hate deflated my anger like a balloon with a pinhole. Out of long years of habit, I fell into my old gullibility of trusting Jamie blindly, explaining away his negative behavior that I knew in my heart was wrong.

"John had no way of knowing what she really was like. And you had no choice because of the letter."

A surge of fresh bitterness escaped in Jamie's next words, "I had a choice. I insisted the wee brat give me the letter before I touched her. Once I was on top of her, she began fighting my body, demanding over and over that I get my cock out of her while I was struggling to keep control. She even screamed, so I covered her mouth before she brought down the whole house on my head. By then I was in such a rage at her degrading my manhood, all I wanted to do was hurt her the way she was shaming me by making me her whore. I was doing as she'd ordered so I made her pay for her lust the only way I could. I forced my cock all the way into her and fucked her as hard as I could!"

As if in a nightmare, my mind echoed with Jamie's shocking confession. I recalled all the times I had understood and forgiven him. This ugly revelation was beyond even my ability to forgive. Picturing the tortured condition of John's battered body and knowing that he might die tilted my personal scale of justice.

"Do you remember what you said on our wedding night?"

"I said many things, Sassenach," his voice still quivering in his anger at Geneva.

"You said respect has room for secrets, but not for lies. All these years you claimed if only you had a choice that night. If only you could have stopped the sex with Geneva from happening. You've lied to yourself without a flicker of conscience. Worst of all, you lied to me. You broke your part of our vow of honesty that was supposed to be inviolate and forever. You weren't a twenty-three year old virgin with a woman for the first time as you were with me. You were a thirty-six year old experienced man very capable of controlling yourself even in your abstinence. Geneva gave you the perfect means of escape, a way to save your honor and your soul, and you threw it away."

"Ye are right, Sassenach. I let my rage rule my conscience. Then the lust took over and it was too late to stop," Jamie said in that smooth, rational way he had of justifying his behavior.

In my own bitterness, I added, "So you committed rape, freely giving yourself to her as her personal Highland whore." My next words were even crueler, but I needed to say them. "Was it different from Jack Randall because you were the aggressor, or because Geneva was a woman instead of a man? Was beating John Grey another way to assuage your dishonor?"

"Dinna speak to me of dishonor! I told ye there was no love or caring for her!"

"That makes what you did even worse. After all these years of our marriage, I find you aren't the person I thought you to be. All I see is a bloody man who has masqueraded as a loving husband, both in and out of our bed. When talking of your other women, how many times have you used the excuse that you were afraid I wouldn't understand? But that wasn't so with Geneva. You _knew_ I wouldn't understand or accept your choice so you lied. Your lie to me damns you even more than your previous sins. And you expect me to keep understanding now that I know the truth?"

"If you love me as ye have claimed a thousand times and more, ye will. Blood and bone, body and spirit bind us. Nothing can break that bond, not even death."

"That was true when I thought you _were_ dead. Now that I know what a dishonorable hypocrite you really are, I could never trust you again."

"Yet ye trust a craven sodomite who knows nothing of God-given love?"

Jamie's accusation spurred dawning truths that I had hidden for far too long. "John knows more about real and honest love than you ever have or will. His love for you has been as pure and perfect as is humanly possible under the circumstances. What's really sad is that for all these years, he has been as big a fool as I have in loving you."

I had kept myself glued to the hay bale out of simple fear that my legs wouldn't hold me up. As the next wave of anger hit me, I was fed up with Jamie looming over me, his powerful body almost threatening as he glowered and shouted and paced with his belligerent emotions. I stood right in front of him and grabbed his hard-muscled arm so he had to look me in the eyes. His other hand automatically wrapped around mine like a claw. I couldn't help noticing the broken skin and bruising on his knuckles. A stab of nausea came up my throat imagining how his powerful hands had been used against John.

"What else have you lied about, Jamie Fraser? You said Laoghaire hated the bedding. Could it be she was afraid of you forcing your demanding cock into her the way you did with me? You felt it was your right because she was your wife?"

Shaking off my hand as if it was dirty, he answered coldly, "Ye know me better than that, Sassenach."

"Do I? But Geneva _wasn't_ your wife!"

"I know!" he shouted into my face. "I'm glad the English bitch is dead! I should ha made sure the bloody pervert was dead as well!"

"And William?"

His body seemed to close in on itself with his sudden exhale of anger. "He shouldna been born," he said softly, a grim note of what almost sounded like despair in his voice.

As he turned toward the open door, I could tell he was struggling to hide himself from the raw truth I had been hammering into him. It was a rare thing for Jamie to react in such a way. In my growing hatred, I was glad he was hurting now the way he'd hurt me earlier.

To his straight, rigid back, I said, "I've always believed you were an honorable man despite that one ugly time between us, incapable of such a heinous crime against a woman. Geneva was telling you in every way a woman has to defend herself that she'd changed her mind, that you were hurting her. She gave you the perfect way to stop your humiliation that night in her bed but you didn't act on it."

I felt my earlier hurt at Jamie's rape of my body course through me anew. "You did the same to me tonight, against my will and painfully, to shame me, all because of John. You _are_ a bloody MacKenzie!"

Jamie turned around slowly. Facing me, his features took on a hellish glow from the beams of moonlight. "Ye want my confession, Sassenach? Ye shall have it! Aye, I raped the wee English whore! I delighted in her body and her cunt so much, I took her a second time!" Moving within inches of me, he continued, "Now I want ye to give me your confession, for spreading your legs to a depraved English lord who doesna know what a woman's body is for! Ye call _me_ a whore? What were _you_ with _him_?"

I raised my open hand to Jamie and slapped him across the face with all the rage in me, of pain and betrayal and disgust. My breath came heavily like an over-winded horse ready to collapse. To my delight, Jamie's head snapped back sharply from the impact of my hand. It didn't take long for his fair skin to blossom into red welts, my fingerprints and the imprint of the silver wedding ring I had rarely taken off in thirty-five years vivid from what I now recognized in myself as pure hatred.

"You are _so_ wrong about John Grey. I was his legal wife that night, drunk and grieving for _you_. He gave me tenderness as well as release in his very real passion."

Something flickered in his eyes at my words. Then I remembered a conversation we'd had long ago about another woman, Mary MacNab. I wasn't surprised when Jamie didn't show any anger. Instead he laughed cruelly. "Your gallant knight, was he?"

"In the most important way you weren't to Geneva Dunsany." I felt a faint bit of hope, wanting to hear some last conciliatory words from Jamie Fraser. "Would it have been so hard, Jamie, to get your body out of her bed and put on your clothes with the letter stuffed in your pocket before it was too late? To beg her forgiveness that you couldn't continue hurting her with your body? Your excuse would have been a lie, but a justified one. All that was left was to get out of her room the same way you'd gotten in. Extricating yourself from the ugly, humiliating situation would have been the honorable thing to do and your family would have been safe. Your sense of honor would have demanded that you take the way out you were given. Instead your soul is stained with rape, two murders and mortal lies without any recourse to that honor you've always been so prideful about"

Jamie's dark cat eyes narrowed, suspicious, expectant, and knowing. "What are ye saying, Sassenach?"

My body tensed knowing that my next words would write an end to what I had believed was a perfect part of my life in this time and place. "I suggest you find a priest and make a _real_ confession, Jamie Fraser. I know the Catholic Church will absolve you of your sins. But I won't."

The tense stance of Jamie's body told me what his stoic face never would. Tenderly, he took hold of both my arms. In a surprisingly gentle voice he said, "I accept my true penance only from you, Claire, and I beg your forgiveness."

For the very briefest of seconds, my life since I fell through the stones at Craigh na Dun and met James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser scrolled through my mind. By the time the kaleidoscope of images reached the barn where we now stood in combative silence, I was able to say my good-bye. I pulled my arms out of his steady grip. Before I could answer him, William came out of the moonlight, his shadow cutting across our shadows on the floor, sundering them in two.

"Mother Claire!" William spoke brazenly, daring Jamie to deny his claim on me.

Taking in a shocked breath, I choked, "William! Did you hear all that?"

"Yes." His voice was cold, sharp and vicious.

Then I realized there had to be a reason for him to be there. In a panic, I asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Papa is awake and asking for you."

"Is he in distress?"

William's look of rage was redoubled, directed at Jamie. "He is in terrible pain."

"I must go." Hurrying to the doorway I stopped, realizing that William was firmly planted in a fighting stance in front of Jamie. "Are you coming, William?"

"In a moment."

Making my choice to go to John who truly needed me, I had to let Jamie and William fight whatever battle they would choose.

* * *

I was very familiar with the look of hatred on men's faces. In the stark moonlight, that primal look in my son's blue cat eyes curdled my wame. I wished with all my heart that he didna look like me. Claire had been right as she always was.

"If I ever see you again you filthy Scotchman, I will kill you."

This ending had been inevitable since our confrontation at John Grey's home. I accepted the truth that had to be and that was: I had no son.

"It is your right, William Ransom." I carefully slid my dirk from its sheath on my belt and handed it to him, hilt first. "For Lord John, and for your mother, Geneva."

I wondered if he understood the Highland meaning, the permission to kill me? Was it in his blood despite everything? Would he turn the blade and strike at my heart in his vengeance? My final death that had been avoided and postponed so many times would be both just and honorable at his hands.

William took the hilt firmly in his big left hand. Sliding it through my closed fist, his eyes never left mine. I clenched my hand tighter, forcing the blade to cut into my left hand. I felt my blood seeping into my palm. When the knife was completely free, I waited for the thrust into my chest. Instead, John Grey's son let his arm fall to his side and strode out the barn door, briskly walking back to his true father's bedside.

The blood was coming quicker, through my fingers, seeking its natural direction. I let the red warmth fall to the floor where I had raped Claire, as penance for my newest sin.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: In The Name of Honor - Part 1 Secrets and Lies – Chapter 2

Author: Marianne H. Stillie

Categories/Genres: Fantasy; Drama; Hurt/Comfort; Romance

Rating: T

Pairing: Claire and Lord John Grey

Summary: The secrets and lies of the past conspire to change the present and future for Claire and Lord John Grey.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places for the Outlander Novels are the property of Diana Gabaldon, Bantam Books, The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks are intended. Previously unrecognized characters, places and this story are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Archive: Please do not archive anywhere without the author's permission.

Copyright (c) 2012 Marianne H. Stillie

* * *

In The Name of Honor

Part 1 – Secrets and Lies

Chapter 2

After my sprint up the staircase to the second floor, I approached John's bedroom with trepidation, very grateful he had awoken from the coma, yet afraid of what I'd see. I could hear Rachel and Dottie's voices talking to him, one steady and firm, the other high-pitched and anxious.

There wasn't time to change my contaminated clothes. I did scrub my hands thoroughly with soap and water then with brandy from the dresser once I was inside the sickroom. The two young women were struggling to keep John from thrashing about in his bed. I was grateful for the strips of linen keeping his broken ribs constrained. Adding a punctured lung to the already life-threatening list of injuries would have finished him. I knew his panicked movements were making his pain worse, his mind desperately trying to escape the agony his nerve endings were communicating to him.

What really tore my heart were the barely audible words his damaged throat was struggling to make. The first distorted sound I heard his voice box utter was, "Claire." Despite the gripping pain it caused him, he haltingly followed it with, "I...neeeed...Claire."

Moving the two women back, I drew up my sentry chair. "I'm here, John."

His slitted eyes focused on me, and he reached out a shaking hand. I grabbed hold and felt the power of his slender fingers from his agony. "Hurts," the word an urgent croak.

With my other hand I smoothed his thick hair back from his forehead letting my fingers gently travel down his damaged face. I wanted to unravel the bedclothes his body was tangled in from his thrashing about, but relieving his pain had to come first. "I know, John. I have medicine for you."

His other hand broke free of the twisted quilt and grabbed my arm, "Plea…se," he begged through swollen, discolored lips.

I could easily guess what his agonized "please" meant.

William rushed through the bedroom door. He dropped what looked like a blood-smeared dirk onto the table by the window. I didn't want to know whose blood was on the blade. He stood very still, his eyes darting from his father to me, a soldier waiting for orders.

"Willie is here, John. As soon as he's washed his hands," I said speaking directly to my stepson, "he'll sit with you while I get your medicine."

Obedient my second nature, William did as I asked then took my place beside John. It was hard to disentangle his hands from mine. In his pain, John Grey was holding onto me with an iron grip. Seeing my difficulty, Willie expertly transferred his father's clenched fingers to his waiting hands.

"Hold tightly, Papa. Mother Claire will help you feel better very soon."

John's pain-glazed eyes locked onto his son's face. For a second, his bruised facial muscles tried to form a smile then his body's physical exigencies overrode it. He grimaced as the waves of pain took possession again.

Motioning Rachel and Dottie to my side at the dresser, I gave them instructions while my hands removed the bottle of syrup of poppies from my medical chest. "Go down to the kitchen and prepare a tray with clean cups, a pitcher of the infusion from the cook house, a pot of honey and a pot of the yarrow tea, heated. Keep yourselves and everything on the tray as germ free as possible."

"Yes, Friend Claire," Rachel said, used to my terminology.

Dottie nodded, more concerned with helping her uncle than in my confusing words. "Yes, Aunt Claire."

They were both out the door and hurrying downstairs in an eye blink.

One of the things I had added to my meager selection of instruments was an oversized ceramic thimble I had found on John's dresser, one of those odd acquisitions he'd brought home from somewhere in his harmless kleptomania. Rinsing it with brandy, I filled it halfway with the golden drops of potent painkiller. I needed to ease John's pain yet still have him awake.

Leaning close to him, I placed my hand comfortingly on his chest. "Do you think you can stand the pain if William holds you against his chest? It will be easier for you to swallow that way, and it won't be for long."

"Yes,' he whispered roughly.

Because of his brief time in the barn, William's clothing was relatively clean from his earlier ablutions. With the utmost gentleness for such a big man, he lifted and cradled his father's smaller, light-boned body against his chest, his right arm keeping the older man's injury-frail frame upright. With his left hand, he took the thimble and held it up to John's tightly clenched mouth. "Just take little sips, Papa. Slowly, so you won't choke."

I could tell John's first instinct was to take all the tempting liquid and swallow it quickly to relieve his pain. His mouth and tongue and throat muscles that were in severe trauma had other ideas. The first small sip made him gag and splutter. William withdrew the thimble and placed it on the bedside table then reached for the cup of water I held out to him. "It's all right, Papa. Take a little water to help the medicine go down."

As had happened often from my first glimpse of William Ransom in the miniature I'd seen in Jamaica twelve years ago, he brought out memories of his sister whom he resembled so strongly. I no longer had Brianna as my right hand nursing assistant. Her younger brother was turning out to be an excellent substitute.

The minutes slipped by and I could see the opiate taking effect. John hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours. With his empty stomach, the potent painkiller was being rapidly absorbed into his system. His body quiet and limp, I broached the next phase of my treatment.

Taking the empty thimble from William, I took hold of John's lax right hand. "I know you want to sleep, John, but I can't let you do that quite yet."

His swollen eyes opened as fully as they could, the slitted pupils showing the effects of the drug. Yet there was an alertness there that let me know he was prepared for my professional pronouncements with complete trust. He nodded silently.

"I've made an infusion to help reduce the swelling in your throat. You must drink as much of it as you can. Will you do that for me?"

There was a hesitation and a compressing of his sutured lips, his Grey stubbornness that I remembered so well from his time at Fraser's Ridge when he was ill with measle. I couldn't help smiling. "I'll make sure there's plenty of honey added first so it won't taste so bad."

The long blond eyelashes blinked slowly in gratitude.

Taking a deep breath, I continued, "I've also made an herbal tea that I insist you drink. Your body is badly dehydrated and you need all the liquids you can take in."

His broken nose attempted a wrinkle in distaste. To John, real tea was from the Orient or India, not from a house garden. "Bran…dy?" he asked brokenly.

"Yes, but in moderation. And plenty of water."

One generous blond eyebrow quirked awkwardly against its stiff suture then subsided. Sighing deeply despite his chest bindings, he squeezed my hand then leaned heavily back against his son.

With a smile his father couldn't see, William gently held John closer. Looking at me, he said authoritatively, "You really should change and freshen up, Mother Claire. I'll take care of Papa while you compose yourself."

His language confused me but I smiled gratefully. "I will. Thank you."

* * *

In my room across the hall, I stripped the ripped, stained clothing from my aching body. I was determined not to let what had happened in the barn take hold of my emotions, preventing me from giving my patient the very best of care. It might have worked except for two things. The distinctive musky scent of Jamie's sexuality on my clothes and coating my privates was pervasive. I used all the water in the ewer and several applications of violet-scented French soap to cleanse my skin with some success. The reek of Jamie's violent rape was too strong in my mind to be dismissed so easily. Worst of all, the fresh change of clothes brought comprehension of Willie's words and the intense look in his eyes. He knew exactly what had been done to me in the barn.

* * *

I had placed John's gold and crystal pocket watch on the bedside table. It was open, the face helping me keep track of each hour for his treatment regimen: his throat infusion, tea for hydration along with water whenever I could cajole him into drinking it, and modest doses of the poppy syrup to keep his pain at bay.

The delicate chiming was now marking the midnight end of one very long and frightening day, and ushering in the beginning of another that could bring either happiness or grief in the blink of an eye.

I finally had to give in and let John sleep. His body had been far too exhausted from the pain to torture him further. All the liquids he had consumed had accomplished one very positive thing. To my relief, the urine he'd passed into the chamber pot had been clear with no signs of red or pink to indicate blood in his kidneys from the beating, as Denny had feared. I would wake him again in an hour for another dose of the infusion that had already reduced the swelling in his throat in combination with more hot compresses.

In a rare moment of amusement in this exhausting day, I watched my stepson as he gingerly poked at the bloated bodies of the leeches in their watery pool. He had companionably told me that his father hated leeches as much as he did. His revulsion at sight of them had definitely changed from the stridently shouting ten-year-old boy I had found beside that stream on Fraser's Ridge ten years ago. The adult William Ransom had bravely applied the slimy creatures at my careful direction to John's throat and to areas of his face that were still heavily blood-bruised.

Now that he knew what Jamie had done to his father in such graphic detail, there was no point in sheltering him as I was sheltering Dottie. When I had stripped away the tangled bedclothes revealing John's grossly enlarged genitals and black and blue buttocks, William had given a very loud exclamation of shock. The words Jamie had used to describe how he'd savaged John's lower body with his knees had produced the grotesque consequence that Willie now saw in reality.

There was a fresh eruption of rage in the set of his body as well as a colorful string of mumbled curses as I delicately applied a layer of leeches to his father's privates. His eyes stayed riveted on John's face, watching for a renewed wave of pain. I was deeply touched by the growing protectiveness William was exhibiting toward his father. I could tell he was very relieved when the treatment was over.

I also began to wonder if he had found out his father's secret sometime in the past. Jamie's other revelations that had come out, the words he'd used could not be misunderstood as anything except what they were, had to have shocked William, but only if he didn't already know John's true nature. His silence along with the lack of emotional reactions was most telling. He was keeping his own counsel for the time being.

John had fallen asleep during our passive ministrations. The gentle hands on his body and the cool wetness of the leeches were soothing after the bouts of pain he had endured before the welcome drug.

William sat down on the stool next to my chair. Taking my hands in his, he kissed each one tenderly. His gentleness reminded me so much of John's comforting hands the second time we'd shared a bed. I couldn't say it aloud, but like father, like son.

"I know you don't want to talk about what happened earlier, and I understand. If you ever do, want to talk that is, I will listen because of who you are to this family. I do promise that I will never discuss with Papa what was said and done in that barn without your express permission."

Leaning forward, I kissed his cheek lingeringly. "Thank you, William. Now, if you would remove our fat little friends back to the kitchen, I would appreciate it. I'm so exhausted, I couldn't manage those stairs unless the house was on fire."

"Of course. I'll be in my room down the hall if you need anything. I presume you do intend to sleep some time?" he teased. Standing, he added, "Thank you, Mother Claire."

Kissing my cheek, he was out the door with the natural grace of his young body, the basin of leeches in hand. Contentedly, I listened to his stocking-clad feet padding softly toward the landing.

Something made me look over at the table by the window. The bloody dirk was gone, leaving only a small smear of blood on the lace cloth. I still didn't want to know whose blood was on the blade.

* * *

The half hour chime from John's pocket watch woke me with a start. Blearily, I checked the time. It had been only a half hour since William had left with the basin of leeches. In a panic, I sat on the bed and examined John to make sure he was still breathing. It only took minutes after an apnea attack to lose a life. I kept my hand on his chest, anxiously measuring the number and length of each breath. They were somewhat deeper and stronger than last I'd checked.

I knew in my heart the worst was far from over. There were too many of John's injuries that could suddenly go bad. Infections were on-going threats as were broken ribs that might not heal properly due to his previous chest injury. Neck or back damage that wouldn't show up until he was ambulatory again. Something I didn't even know was potentially a life-threatening crisis such as a hidden head trauma that could threaten the stability of the plate under his scalp. At the rate my mind was compiling such grave possibilities, I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep again.

I was deeply exhausted though. I had changed into a nightgown and robe planning to crawl into my own bed when Rachel was scheduled to take over my vigil at dawn. Dawn was still a ways away. I hoped John had a good book somewhere in his private collection of reading matter. I hadn't spent enough time in his room to investigate his bookshelves.

There wasn't much to do until it was time to wake him for his next dose of infusion and more fluids so I fussed over my patient instead. His body had shifted sideways on the thick layer of pillows that were helping him breathe easier. In moving him more comfortably upright, he stirred in what was now a more normal sleep pattern. I made sure I touched him firmly and affectionately to give him ease and security. This time there were noticeable reactions to my tactile stimuli, several muscle twitches and a very definite sigh of contentment. Gratefully, all his movements were without any pain.

"Deo gratias," I prayed sincerely.

Leaning back in my chair, I felt tears building for the first time. In the privacy of John's bedroom, I let them come out full force. As an educated professional ruled by rationality and science, I immediately looked for a concrete reason for my tears, which wasn't hard in Philadelphia in the late eighteenth century. In all the muck and confusion of my brain, I vocalized, "Pick one, Beauchamp!"

The "biggest" reason was obvious – Jamie Fraser, husband, lover, rapist and attempted murderer. I had always been so good at sorting, organizing and planning. Even during the worst of crises and trauma in my old life and with this one, I had been able to find direction. I was feeling so shattered by Jamie's ugly revelations and his near demented treatment of John and me, I couldn't find the missing thread in my personal knitting.

Perhaps I was trying too hard or expecting too much in too short a time. It had been only a few short hours since my long-time husband and lover had raped me. I had seen enough traumatized women during my years in that Boston hospital to know that none of them recovered that quickly from such an experience, and certainly not unscathed psychologically.

But I didn't want to be one of those women. I was too angry and too fed up with feeling like a victim to allow my psyche that consideration. Even being beaten and raped by the thugs who had abducted me on the Ridge five years ago hadn't made me feel like this. I refused to be a victim to my own spouse's obsessive jealousy!

I did know one thing for sure. I no longer wanted to be married to Jamie Fraser. It was over, dead, poisoned by his past lies, defective conscience and debased honor. All the good things had been made a sham by his callous destruction of the trust we had sworn to each other. I couldn't forgive anymore. Not him anyway. With one tiny fleeting thought I wondered what would become of the man who had sworn in his heart of hearts that he could never live without me. His faith had failed him miserably there. I almost wished that he had believed more firmly and thought of the consequences before he'd made his flawed choices both before and after we were reunited.

That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that had come with Jamie's confession was back. His brazen excuses for what he did and what he didn't do in Geneva's bed were like a nightmare echo in my memory along with everything he had said and done in the barn. When I thought Jamie was dead, I had wanted to die myself, to be with him again. Now I wanted to live out of spite to refute the tainted love I'd lived with the last twelve years. The love we had once had was necrotic and I needed to bury it.

Twenty years of my life in the future had been destroyed because of my refusal to let go of Jamie Fraser. Love and jealousy weren't logical I knew very well. I was now paying for my foolish, childish romanticism. Yes, there was Brianna. Even William's existence could be considered a blessing and a balm to my anger and guilt. What still haunted me was that I had yet to fulfill my penance to Frank. It was far too late to change what I'd done to him. As a beginning to my long overdue penance, I decided to keep the gold ring Frank had placed on my finger in the same tiny Scottish Catholic church where I had been forced to marry Jamie in 1743. I had betrayed my true husband enough already. Maybe God would show me a way to make that right somehow.

The simplest solution would be to return to my own time through the stones. I was sure I could find Brianna, Roger and my grandchildren. As fearful as I was of making another of those horrific transitions, I would gladly take the chance to be reunited with them. To have a stable, modern life again, in a world where people didn't die en masse of simple colds, and women weren't at the mercy of their reproductive organs.

There were still wars and cruelty and hate in the future I had to admit. That wouldn't go away. In truth, there were people I loved here who needed my medical skill even more. My knowledge of the future could change some small things for the better. My being here had already saved lives and changed events, not on a grand scale but where it mattered personally.

With my next thought I made my choice. I would stay in this time. I would also move north, back to Boston. The days of witch trials were over in Massachusetts so I had a good chance to escape being burned at the stake as a white witch. I could also make a difference once the Colonies were free of the British. It would be exciting to see those early days happen in reality instead of words from books.

My tears had decreased as my decisions fell into place one by one. There would still be times when I'd remember and regret. Maybe even wish the last two days hadn't happened so I could have the life I'd expected with Jamie: going back home to Fraser's Ridge, building the new house, growing even older with him until our ends, either separately or together, came. The nostalgia would hurt, deep and often, but I would survive and go on with the next phase of my life. I had rarely been one for sentimental symbolism. This time it was a necessity. The wide silver wedding ring Jamie had put on my finger thirty-five years ago was so deeply imbedded in the third finger of my right hand it was a struggle to remove it. Slowly, it slipped along my finger, first over one large knuckle then over the small second knuckle until it was finally off. Off my finger, off my hand, off my body. Getting Jamie out of my mind would be harder and take longer after all our years together, but I would make sure it was accomplished.

The one thing I did know for sure was that my marriage was over. Not just a simple civilized separation. It must be a total sundering of the legal ties that bound me to the Highlander in this time. Recalling the coming month, I decided it appropriately ironic that we were just barely making our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. What was the modern symbolism for it?

The first step of my plan would be to find a reputable attorney and begin the divorce process. Getting out of my despoiled marriage had to come first. I wished the wonderful Ned Gowan was on this side of the Atlantic. If ever there was a lawyer a woman could depend on within the unequal strictures of eighteenth century law, it was that wily Protestant Scotsman.

With my missing thread back in place, I made my first new life decision, which was finding an entertaining book to read. There were two neatly arranged shelves above John's writing desk. Taking my reading spectacles out of the case I carried with me in my pocket, I perused the richly bound volumes. Since he hadn't been in Philadelphia long enough to accumulate many books, my selection was limited to a dozen novels of various types: Defoe, Fielding, Voltaire and others I wasn't familiar with. I was very surprised to see Goethe's "The Sorrows of Young Werner", considered to be the beginning of Romanticism, and only recently published. His copy in English must have been sent from London. There was a book of Shakespeare's plays and another of his sonnets, a bible I recognized as a Catholic Douay-Rheims edition, a rather risqué French art book, a collection of plays by Aeschylus, Plato's "The Republic", the John Donne book he had loaned Jamie years ago and, of course, Marcus Aurelius' "Meditations". John Grey was as eclectic in his reading as he was in his speech and avocations.

Choosing the Greek plays that I hadn't read since my freshman year in college, I settled back into my chair beside John's bed. I skipped through the first two plays and went directly to what had been my favorite, "Prometheus Bound".

Though being deeply involved in the character's tragic suffering, I became aware of the total silence in the room. John's breathing was irregular with a definite resonance as his throat and lungs struggled to take in air. That sound was totally missing.

I was on the bed beside him, my hands pressing on his rigid chest to get him breathing again. Nothing happened. No sound, no movement. Aggressively, I pounded on his chest, ignoring the fact of his bound broken ribs.

"If you think you're going to die on my watch John William Grey, you're very much mistaken!"

Another pound, then again. My hands were poised for another, when there was a precious sound from the body under my hands.

Taking in a deep inhalation of air, John choked, opened his eyes and breathed in two more short urgent gulps of air. Leaning forward, his weak body crumpled into my arms.

Heavily pressed against me, he coughed harshly to clear his throat. His head tilted up and focused on my face in the dim light of the candles around the room. "What…hap…pened?"

"You stopped breathing."

"Oh." I felt him tremble as he took in a very careful and very wavering fresh breath. "Water?"

Breathing my own deep sigh of relief, I lowered him cautiously onto the pillows and brought him a cup of water. Carefully helping him drink, I said, "Since it's almost time for your infusion, I'll give it to you now."

He nodded reluctantly. "Hurts… again."

"Infusion first, then poppy syrup. Then you can go back to sleep."

"Yes…ma…dam," his warm breath whispered against the silk of my robe.

It took almost an hour to get enough of the infusion and a dose of poppy syrup into John, his raw throat regurgitating the necessary fluids in rebellion. I added a fresh hot compress to his throat fully expecting him to fall back to sleep quickly. Instead his eyes fixed on the candle flame on the dresser. The opiate tended to cause disturbing images.

His jaw had clenched and his hands were working restlessly on the bedclothes. To divert his mind from whatever unpleasant visions he was seeing, I asked, "Would you like me to read to you?"

Slowly, his eyes turned to me. "What?"

"Aeschylus."

John blinked once which I took to mean assent and closed his eyes. He listened closely to my voice until he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: In The Name of Honor - Part 1 Secrets and Lies – Chapter 3

Author: Marianne H. Stillie

Categories/Genres: Fantasy; Drama; Hurt/Comfort; Romance

Rating: T

Pairing: Claire and Lord John Grey

Summary: The secrets and lies of the past conspire to change the present and future for Claire and Lord John Grey.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places for the Outlander Novels are the property of Diana Gabaldon, Bantam Books, The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks are intended. Previously unrecognized characters, places and this story are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Archive: Please do not archive anywhere without the author's permission.

Copyright (c) 2012 Marianne H. Stillie

* * *

In The Name of Honor

Part 1 – Secrets and Lies

Chapter 3

With each day, the occupants of the household had fallen into an increasingly regimented routine, all centered about my patient. John's medical care had to be primary and intense if he was to survive. Rachel, Dottie and William became almost as expert as I was in applying poultices and dispensing infusions, tea and honey water. Even the leeching treatments had become commonplace.

The first four days had been most difficult and frightening. The doses of throat infusion and hot compresses had gradually decreased the swelling and trauma both internally and externally around John's neck. They should also have brought about an end to the apnea episodes. Instead they increased to two and three times in each of the six hour shifts Willie, Dottie, Rachel and I stood vigil over John. The gloom that shrouded the house had reached a deeply depressing level on the fifth day when Dottie reported the first glimmer of good news at the end of her shift – John had made it through her six hours with no cessations of breathing. Very cautiously, Rachel and I were able to report the same at the end of our shifts. All that remained was Willie's night vigil experience. I was hopeful that a full twenty-four hours free of attacks would be the turning point.

That streak of hope ran through me as I came downstairs and took my place at the dining room table. Mrs. Figg had set out a simple breakfast of ham steaks, fried eggs and thick slices of toasted bread. I had slept fitfully as usual, prepared for an urgent call from John's room. The report I was hoping for from Willie, that his father had slept through the night with no crises, was like a prayerful refrain in my mind. The sun was barely up, but the house throbbed in anticipation.

"Aunt Claire?" Dottie called softly as she placed a steaming cup of tea in front of me.

"Thank you, dear." Lifting the cup to my mouth, I took a long swallow of the strong, sweet beverage, the swirls of thick cream coating my throat.

The front door opened and closed with a simple scrape of wood and hinges. My sensitized nerves amplified the sound causing my hand that was absently resting on the saucer to jump in reflex. A splatter of tea landed in the saucer as the cup tipped precariously. Dottie dropped the piece of toast she had been about to bite into and grabbed for the delicate china cup. It wobbled then settled into its place.

Stepping into the dining room from the hall after her visit to the necessary house, Rachel greeted me, "Good morning, Friend Claire." My silence made her look questioningly at me then at Dottie. Noticing the spilled tea, she said in a highly apologetic voice, "If I startled thee, I am truly sorry."

Moving beside my chair, Dottie smiled at Rachel. "Dearest sister, would thee prepare a plate for my aunt while I go upstairs. Left to his own devices, my sleepyhead cousin will snore the morning away."

"Of course," and she smiled at me sweetly.

Kissing my cheek, Dottie whispered, "I will send William down immediately, Aunt Claire." Grabbing her slice of toast, she padded out to the hall and hurried up the stairs. I took note she had left her own breakfast only half eaten.

Putting together a plate of food for me, Rachel asked, "Will my brother be stopping by today?"

"Yes. He is quite concerned about Lord John's condition. I also asked him to get the last of my medical supplies from the printshop." Before I could continue, heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.

In an urgent voice that was rare for his usually controlled nature, William blurted, "Mother Claire, come quickly!"

My stepson turned on his heel going back the way he had come. I was right behind him, carefully avoiding the banister that was only partially repaired.

Stepping aside once in his father's room so I could reach the bed, William explained, "We couldn't rouse Papa from sleep at first. Finally, he came awake though quite lethargically. It was then I noticed his changed face." He swallowed as if a hard lump had caught in his throat.

A thorough rinse with soap and water at the basin on the dresser, I returned to John's bedside. Gently with thumb and forefinger, I turned his head fully toward me. Through the skin of my fingertips, I easily felt the fever rippling through his body. Holding in my apprehension, I clinically scrutinized the swollen blotches of red that covered his face everywhere the skin had been broken by Jamie's fists. The most obvious signs of infection were in the sutured areas around his eyes and mouth, all ballooned in size with yellow pus.

"John," I called softy.

The freshly swollen eyelids struggled open, showing me a fever-saturated lack of focus. "Hurts…more," and he reached across the coverlet, searching for my hand.

I took hold of his hand and squeezed it firmly. His answering grip was weak. "You have an infection, John." My mind working beyond its normal speed and at multiple levels, I explained calmly, "I'll leave instructions with Willie for your care while I go out. I need stronger medicines than what I have in the house." His hand tightened around mine noticeably, his reason obvious. "Denny Hunter will be here soon. With a houseful of people who care about you, you won't be alone."

John's fevered eyes widened as he attempted to pull me closer. I leaned down and gave him a tender kiss on a small patch of undamaged skin on his forehead. He sighed then rested his head deeper into the thick pillow. His eyes closed heavily and he slept again.

* * *

William and I stood together far enough down the long hall so my subdued but intense voice wouldn't alarm Dottie. "When Denny gets here, I want the two of you to bathe your father carefully both as a sanitizing preparation for the surgery and to cool his fevered body. There will be a carefully wrapped piece of clean canvas in the supplies Denny will have brought from the printshop. Use it to prepare the bed for the procedure. I'll leave instructions with Dottie, Rachel and Mrs. Figg for sterilizing instruments."

I didn't mention the bottles of ether or the masks. Willie knew what they were from his cousin Henry's surgery soon after I arrived. The other preparations had to come first.

Instead of the weighty questions I had expected from my stepson, there was a quavering silence. His anxious dark blue eyes were riveted on his father's bedroom. I recognized the same fear of loss I'd seen on his then ten-year-old face on Fraser's Ridge so long ago.

Not knowing what form of inspiration possessed me, I said, "William, I promise you, your father will be all right." In my mind I added a fervent Gaelic prayer to Blessed Bride and Blessed Michael. After all these years, the Scottish habits I'd learned were an ingrained part of me. I had no doubt my fervent prayer would be heard for an Englishman.

* * *

Four sets of hands were aligned in an assembly line of pounding, grating and sifting into the large ceramic pudding bowl on the cloth-covered kitchen table. My careful instructions for sanitizing everything had been scrupulously followed. Even the two new mortars and pestles I'd bought from the apothecary shop had been boiled to the point that even the most stubborn germ hadn't had a chance to survive.

After my examination of John on my return home, I had no doubt that the infection that was rampaging through his body was a bacterial strain that was resistant to the standard treatments I had been using. Despite Philadelphia's attempts over the years to control sources of pestilence and pollution, a great deal of it at the urging of the civic and health-minded Benjamin Franklin, the city in the late eighteenth century was still a highly contaminated place. Eight months of British occupation had added fresh sources of contamination in a number of areas of the crowded urban city. From my knowledge of this time, I was sure the area outside the city where John had been left to die was the source. The tactile memory of my latest evaluation of his heightened fever made my teeth clench in anger at the thought of who was responsible for his condition.

I had no time to wait for my penicillin cultures to mature or to concoct tinctures or extracts from plant products. I had called on my dear departed Tuscaroran mentor Nayawenne for guidance in choosing the strongest botanicals she and my Cherokee friends from the Treaty Line villages back in North Carolina had taught me about for treating virulent infections. By the time I'd reached Mr. Sholto's shop, the apothecary on Walnut Street I trusted most to have the variety of plants I required, I had selected a dozen possibilities. I brought home five I deemed the best for my needs along with a fresh bag of birch bark, and a bottle of laudanum for pain relief if needed. As soon as the wound powder I planned to use as a honey-laced paste on John's ravaged face was ready, Denny and I would begin removing sutures, allowing the infected wounds to drain.

Sitting at my own mortar and pestle from my medicine chest, I took stock of the four gauze bags on the kitchen table we had emptied. Their contents of goldenseal, artemisia, echinacea and boneset were benignly layered in the pudding bowl. Only the sprigs of juniper remained to be processed into the wound powder.

"Oh dear," Dottie said anxiously, holding up a lumpy piece of juniper branch.

"Throw that away, Miss Dottie! It's one a them parsites my mama always warned me about. Grow on trees, but just as big a poison as the wrong kind a wild mushrooms."

Gently, I removed the piece of juniper from Dottie's hand. Hoping to lighten the mood around the table, I held the branch up and gave a little laugh. "I don't mean to contradict your mama, Mrs. Figg, but this pretty thing isn't a parasite at all. It's an epiphyte that lives in happy coexistence with another plant like this juniper." Very carefully I scraped my nail on the patch of gray-green lichen revealing the fine pale threads that composed the inner part of the plant. "The Cherokee call this plant _old man's beard_."

The three very curious and attentive women crowded close. "Thee are sure this epiphyte won't harm my uncle?" Dottie asked.

"I'd throw it away myself if there was any danger to him."

"May we use both plants for the wound powder, Friend Claire?"

"By all means. Now we have six medicines instead of five for Lord John."

We divided the pieces of juniper, some with and some without the lichen growth. Along with the renewed sounds of pounding, grinding and sifting, three sweet voices drifted through the kitchen. Dottie and Rachel's sopranos were combined in a psalm I recognized from the Book of Common Prayer while Mrs. Figg's steady alto acted as a base rhythm for their words. I suspected her unfamiliar chant had its roots in West Africa and had come over with her mother on a slave ship.

The combined sound was so soothing I felt no need to add my own meager voice to it. Instead I began the first decade of a rosary in my mind, selecting the first Joyful Mystery to bolster my hope. We needed a miracle in this house so I could keep my promise to William.

* * *

The sun's rays were sharply slanted to the west of the city. I didn't realize how tight my back muscles had become until I stood up beside John's bed. Two and a half hours of delicate surgery and painstakingly applying the dollops of medicinal paste to his face had been trying. _Your age is catching up to you again, Beauchamp,_ I lamented.

Taking the small bowl now empty of prepared wound powder paste from my sticky hand, Denny offered me a clean towel. "The worst wounds have stopped suppurating. Thy medicine appears to be working."

"The healing has started," I stated cautiously. "When John's fever begins to come down, I'll know for sure."

My hands were still sticky from the fresh application of paste so I took a step toward the dresser to wash my hands. My head began to spin as my body leaned forward of its own volition. Thanks to Denny's quick reflexes and strong arms, I found myself sitting in the red damask chair by the window instead of sprawled unladylike on the floor.

When the room stopped spinning, I lifted my head and stared down at Denny's hand as he took my pulse. "Will I live, Dr. Hunter?"

"That depends. When did thee eat last?"

I could see my young colleague was completely serious and professionally concerned about my welfare. "Breakfast." I would have brazened out further details, but I owed Denny an equal honesty. "A cup of tea with two spoons of sugar and lots of heavy cream."

With the skill and intuition I had come to admire in him since Ticonderoga, he pronounced, "As _thy_ physician, I order thee to thy bed. I will have Mrs. Figg bring up a tray that I expect thee to consume in total. Then thee will rest and sleep."

The set of Denny's very earnest face kept me from arguing with him. Instead I called on his professionalism for John. "I'll eat and rest as you prescribe. John must be monitored closely. These next hours are critical to getting the infection under control."

In an annoyed voice that was rare for Denzel Hunter's Quaker upbringing, he said, "Thee will do Friend Grey no good if thee collapses from exhaustion and starvation."

Grudgingly, I answered, "I _have_ trained you all well." Chuckling, I added, "Even Mrs. Figg." My pride and arrogance in my abilities _was_ getting the better of me I had to admit. Stubborn as I could be, I did need Denny's help. "Will you stay here the night? The settee in the parlor is quite comfortable." My second chuckle faded as I reached out for Denny's hand.

"I will," he nodded. "The night patrols have become even more aggressive since General Clinton has taken over command. Even with the identification papers Friend Grey provided for me, I don't want to provoke an incident by moving about the city more than I already have today."

Alerted by his tone of voice, I sat up straighter in the chair. "Is the printshop still under surveillance?"

"Oh yes. One does not attempt murder on an English lord so freely, especially one as well known and respected as Friend Grey. The entire British Army wants Friend James in their hands, dead or alive."

Denny's last words were said reluctantly. Yet I knew the truth of it.

Changing the subject to my patient who was far more important, I asked, "Would you make sure the scheduling for all John's treatments is strictly adhered to. He must be kept hydrated even if it's only sips of honey water every quarter hour. And the wound powder paste has to be renewed every three hours to keep the level of medicine feeding into his system at a high level."

With a comforting hand on my shoulder, Denny responded respectfully, "Yes, Dr. Fraser."

I started at the name then had to acknowledge that was who I was, to Denny and to everyone in the house. At that moment I made the decision to go back to my true name once the divorce was final – Claire Beauchamp Randall. I couldn't help smiling at the triumph Frank would have appreciated.

* * *

Against Denny's orders, I had slipped out of my bed during the night and taken up a duel vigil with William. We had conversed softly while I renewed the paste until we ran out of topics to discuss. Touching his father's skin to gauge the level of fever, he frowned then settled in the armchair at my urging. I could see him fighting valiantly until he finally fell asleep.

Being a firm believer in the therapeutic value of touch in the healing process, I settled on a stool beside the bed and wrapped my hands around one of John's. My intimate ritual with him felt very right despite the no longer legal marital status between us.

* * *

The lightly caressing fingers moving over the top of my head finally awakened me when a throaty voice whispered, "Claire?" John's other hand squeezed both of mine that were still locked around his in the depths of my sleep.

Pushing away the thick layer of sleep cobwebs in my head, I realized that the waves of unnatural heat so prevalent from John's body the night before were gone. Leaning closer, I scanned his face from his forehead, across his eyes, and down his cheeks to his mouth. The raging redness of the infection everywhere I looked was clearly reduced under the healing paste. "How do you feel, John?"

Heroically, he attempted an answering smile that dislodged the largest piece of dried wound powder at the left side of his mouth. "Bett…er," and he squeezed my hands tighter.

Extricating one hand, I smoothed a sweat-drenched lock of hair from his cheek and smiled back, "Deo gratias."

* * *

Despite being the rational scientific creature I had always considered myself to be, I didn't hesitate to call John's recovery a miracle as the hours and days flowed by. I continued the wound powder paste for four more days until there were only small spots of pale pink healing skin. The paste had taken the place of sutures eliminating any gaps in the restored skin. The original facial bruises had gradually changed to a rainbow of purples, greens and yellows over the days. His features were healing back to their natural handsomeness, free of the hideous swelling.

To my great surprise, the swelling in his throat and externally had reduced faster, improving his breathing very close to his normal respiration. I suspected the botanical medicines that had healed his face so thoroughly were having a beneficial side effect. I did plan to continue the round-the-clock monitoring a little longer to be absolutely sure there would be no relapses of the apnea.

Along with supervising her brother Horace, a very reputable and relatively quiet carpenter as he made repairs to the banister, stair railings and paneling, Mrs. Figg also did her part. She volunteered each day to sit with John while he napped, doing her sewing, which allowed the rest of us to do other things.

John's stoic soldier bravura didn't fool me. I knew he was still in significant pain from the broken ribs and the brutal beating he'd endured. I had changed his pain medication to the milder laudanum. I planned to switch him over to less debilitating botanical analgesics as soon as possible. One thing I knew about John Grey was his aversion to being out of control. The opiates did that to him and he hated it.

When my patient let it be known that he was hungry, I marked it as a milestone of returning health. Due to the condition of his throat, his menu was limited to light food items at first such as broths, puddings, mashed fruits and vegetables, some of which the very particular Lord John came to appreciate in his hunger. When oatmeal had appeared on his breakfast tray one morning it was sent back to the kitchen untouched. John's one word comment to my raised eyebrow was, "Aberdeen." Willie laughed when I told him his father's reaction to the simple food item. He explained it as a remnant of John's exile to that southern Scottish city with his mother's dour relatives after his father's death. With that warm feeling of family, I accepted another new insight into my friend John Grey.

Each day his ability to speak had improved in concert with his healing throat. He spoke haltingly in single words or very short phrases, carefully enunciating each sound that came from his still traumatized voice box. I was sure that the verbal skills that had made him such a good officer and successful diplomat would encourage him to take on the complexity of full sentences in no time so he could communicate fully with the people around him again. John was a very social creature and enjoyed the nuances of conversation far too much to be kept silent for too long.

My patient had recovered so well and so quickly by the morning of the ninth day since his trauma, I let myself truly believe he would survive with no more than a small scar or two on his face. Even his horribly abused genitals were more than halfway to their normal color and size.

* * *

Rachel met me at the bedroom door. She took John's breakfast tray and placed it on the table by the window. The handled container of fresh infusion with analgesic birch added to the elderflower and thyme went on the dresser ready for my patient's first treatment of the day without the laudanum.

"Good morning, Friend Claire," Rachel said covering a yawn with her delicate small hand.

"Good morning, dear. How did our patient sleep through the night?"

"Friend Grey slept very peacefully. And thee?" she asked, her soft hazel eyes showing her anticipation of sleep for herself.

"Also very peacefully, thank you," I lied. Not surprisingly, I had dreamed heavily about that night in the barn. My subconscious was very clearly telling me I wasn't as tough as I thought myself to be.

With her second yawn, I kissed Rachel lightly on her smooth cheek and sent her off to the extra bed that now occupied Dottie's bedroom. The two young women, so different in so many ways, had become even closer in this crisis. I did worry about Dottie's change of allegiance in the war and her adjustment to Denny's profession. She was a Grey though with all the good breeding and stamina that came with the name and title.

I gave John a close inspection with my eyes. He was still asleep, his body flat on the down mattress with his face turned away from me. His steady, even breathing was a very welcome sound. The two extra pillows were on the floor, which indicated that the painful restlessness and irregular breathing were gone, his body finding its natural and familiar position in its rest.

Just passed dawn, the promising sunshine was growing brighter through the curtains sweeping away the ugliness of my dreams, bringing instead positive emotions. I rarely thought of my experiences during World War Two anymore having come to terms with where and when my life existed, especially now that I'd decided to stay irrevocably. Surprisingly, the notes of a favorite Glenn Miller song began repeating in my memory coming out in a soft hum. Haltingly, I added the lyrics of "Moonlight Serenade" to the notes as I remembered them. Reviewing my plans to spend part of this day about town in constructive errands, I let the sweet melody flow just below the surface of my hearing.

I had been in Philadelphia only a few weeks while John had already established himself months before the occupation. I felt some guilt at using the contacts he had made with merchants when the civilian inhabitants were suffering under British rule. My rational, practical self that valued human life held sway against my dilemma. I had things to do, and John was generous to a fault going back to helping me with medical supplies for Henri-Christian's surgery in exchange for my professional skill for his nephew Henry.

My plan was to visit my primary haunt to replenish my depleted supplies of plants and see what new offerings Mr. Sholto might have added to his inventory as the growing season expanded. There were still restrictions on farm products coming into the city. I didn't know which side the highly knowledgeable man was on, and really didn't care. He supplied what I needed for my patients, and I freely gave him medical advice when he needed it. I had begun to suspect from the types of questions he asked that he was involved with the care of either British soldiers or American prisoners. Either way, I was using my knowledge to help those who required care I couldn't give directly. After this unexpected emergency, I was seriously in need of more distilled alcohol for my medical kit. That the gentleman had a still somewhere in the bowls of his store was my good luck.

I knew John patronized a small shop above the Delaware River for his alcoholic spirits, also a commodity closely regulated by the British command. In addition to replenishing his stock of brandy that had been used lavishly for medicinal purposes, I hoped to find a bottle of a favorite French wine I remembered from my time in Paris, or something close to it.

Despite my desire to see Marsali and my grandchildren, especially Henri-Christian, I would avoid the printshop. I had no desire to see my soon-to-be ex-sister-in-law Jenny Murray. Our history had been highly volatile over the years due to various issues. Now that I was divorcing her baby brother, I didn't want to get involved in a family stramash over the whys along with the vicious how-dare-yous her temper would throw at me. The only person I would miss from the Murray branch of the family would be my nephew Ian. I had been in close consultation with Denny Hunter who had taken over Ian's medical care. His horribly cleaved right shoulder that had been vengefully inflicted by a grief-demented Arch Bug was steadily healing to my great relief.

Under the current highly complex set of circumstances, it was Jamie's responsibility to explain to his sister what had happened between us. Even more, I didn't want to take the chance of running into him. I was fairly sure he was probably in hiding well outside the city due to the new price on his head of attempted murder along with the treason. With General Washington's forces and groups of American militia keeping close watch on the British from all sides, Jamie had a safe place to go. With all the stealth and violence his Highlander body was capable of he would find a way to get through to their lines.

As I filled a cup with a dose of the freshly upgraded infusion, a clear masculine voice from behind me said, "Good morning, my dear."

Startled out of my thoughts, some of the infusion splashed over my hand causing a large wet spot on the towel covering the dresser. Putting down the cup, I turned to see a smiling John Grey, his nightshirt-covered body on his side facing me.

My eyes slitting suspiciously, I responded, "Good morning to you too. And how long have you been able to speak normally?" I was exaggerating since his enunciation was slow and very carefully modulated, not at his usual volume, but his voice was very close to what it had been before his throat injury.

"Since… last night when…Willie was here. He has been helping… me as my throat… improved." His grin of proud accomplishment lit up his face even as he swallowed with effort at the words having come out correctly.

I picked up the two pillows and stood beside John's bed, controlling an urge to throw at least one of the goose-down pillows at him. Instead I helped him sit up, taking note of his winces and his firm grip on my arm. The broken ribs and battering to his back were slow in healing. As much as I wanted him whole and healthy again, I didn't want to overtax my request for miracles. John, being more reasonable and patient than certain of the men of my acquaintance had been over the years, didn't have that arrogant stubborn streak that made him need to prove himself invincible no matter how badly hurt he was. I stopped myself before I took that thought further. Remembering and comparing were very bad ideas so soon after my momentous life-changing decision. John had his own "bloody man" traits in place of that one. Yes, the birch added to the original infusion as a mild analgesic would do nicely.

"Thank you, Claire." The rich tenor that was uniquely John's voice was a very calming sound.

"You've said that several times lately," I laughed. Pouring a cup of hot tea from the delicate blue Wedgewood china pot on the breakfast tray, I sat beside him in my usual chair. "I am your physician. I would be gravely delinquent in my profession if I weren't fulfilling my duty and responsibility to you."

John was about to say something but took the cup from me instead. As he drank the strong tea, he closed his eyes in bliss. "This magnificent cup… of real tea doesn't need any brandy. Where did you find… China Black here in Philadelphia?"

"Not me. Willie, and he told me not to ask how or where he acquired it." My stepson had left the house before dawn saying that he had to report in. I knew better than to ask for details.

Sipping his tea, John kept his eyes on my face over the cup rim. Savoring the last drops, he put the cup on the bedside table. Very carefully, he said, "My thanks this time… weren't for your excellent medical care." Clearing his throat so that his voice increased in volume, he continued, "A gentleman always thanks his lady… for allowing him to share her bed. I am especially grateful… for your most intimate care of my person that night."

There was no way to cover my embarrassment at the sweet honesty in John's words, not when my cheeks were flushing hotly. Wondering at his odd reference to something that had happened the night before Jamie's abrupt appearance, I asked, "What is the last thing you remember, John?"

"Before waking here in my bed…with every centimeter… of my body in agony?"

I nodded then watched as a series of questioning and confused expressions worked their way across his almost healed face. "Falling asleep with my arms… around you, concluding that having you… as my wife… is a very great gift."

On top of the embarrassment, a fresh shock set in. John's warm affectionate words confused me on one level, as had his verbal appreciation for our last intimacy. As several frightening suspicions flitted through my medical diagnostic list of possibilities at another level, my light-hearted earlier mood faded away in total.

John filled in the silence I had let drag on too long. In his most forceful and direct officer's timbre, he asked, "I _would_ like to know how I came to be… in this deplorable physical condition?"

Switching mental gears as I had done so well in my days as a British Army nurse, I concluded to myself, _Keep it simple, Beauchamp!_

"I'm not quite sure myself. You said you had several errands to run but you weren't specific as to where or how long you would be gone. I didn't worry when you hadn't returned for supper assuming you were visiting Henry and Mercy or with friends."

Evasion of any kind had always been beyond me so I watched John's face closely, gauging his reaction. His expression was neutral, waiting for more details. I plunged in hoping the rest of my story wouldn't set off a sudden wave of unpleasant remembrance.

"It wasn't until next morning when a very grim-faced sergeant came to the door and informed me that you had been found just outside the city severely beaten that I panicked."

"Should I assume that I was accosted by thieves?" he asked curiously.

"No, you weren't robbed," I told him truthfully.

"Just beaten within an inch of my life. Hmm."

I could see the problem-solving wheels turning in John's head as his lips pursed and his eyebrows drew together. There were few things he liked better than a good mystery. I had to change the subject and quickly. "If you feel up to it, would you like to get out of bed and walk a bit, just around the room to start?"

A brief cough cleared his throat from all the talking he'd been doing in so short a time. "I would," he continued. "Perhaps some time by the window… in the sunshine?"

"Of course," I smiled, relieved at his obliging agreement.

John's smile reached up to his sparkling blue eyes, a sure sign that he was about to say something profoundly amusing. Carefully enunciating each word, he said, "Before you begin your medical examination for the day, I would appreciate an acquaintance with my chamber pot."

His teasing jest and gentlemanly request overcame my growing anxiety, and I burst out laughing. Placing the empty chamber pot on the bedside table, I helped him to sit up on the edge of the bed.

Searching my face, he reached up and caressed my cheek. "You are much better today, my dear."

I knew what he meant without explanation. Despite his own grief, from the first news of Jamie's purported death, John had been gravely anxious about my state of mind. He saw my growing despondency and without fanfare or questioning what needed to be done, he had made it his business to see me through it. With his wonderful kindness and tenderness, he helped me understand that I still had reasons to live when all I had wanted to do was find a way to die. He had married me out of a sense of responsibility and long affection for Jamie. Looking into his face now, I had to admit that our two nights of intimacy had made an unexpected difference between us beyond our simple friendship.

His latest concern confirmed what I suspected. John still believed Jamie was dead, and that I was legally his wife. He apparently had no memory of the events that had transpired the day Jamie was "resurrected" or its aftermath.

Kissing him softly on the cheek, I excused myself to give him a few minutes of privacy. Out in the hall, I leaned back against the freshly repaired wall. I hoped William would be back well before nightfall. He and I needed to have a very in-depth conversation about his father's unexpected new condition.

* * *

An earlier conversation occurred with Dottie and Denny hours before William's return out of necessity. Denny had arrived for what I thought was his usual check-in on our mutual patient. When Dottie joined us at the front door as soon as she heard his voice, I knew there was some other reason for his visit.

In the seclusion of the closed-door parlor, I listened to them explain that they needed to move up their wedding plans. Instead of a month from now, we only had ten days. Though still not official, there was growing confirmation by the change in command and the increasing military activities in and around the city that the British Army would be withdrawing from Philadelphia very soon. With the weather wallowing in a balmy spring, it wasn't hard to conclude that the Continental Army would be going into action soon after.

My own emotions were balanced as on a two-edged sword. First came my fear for them as well as for Rachel and my nephew Ian. The other was a stomach churning anxiety for William's safety. I suppressed both and went right into the bad news about John.

I could see Denny was intrigued and concerned from both a medical and personal perspective. Most surprising was Dottie's calm, solemn acceptance of my announcement of her uncle's amnesia. After the last ten days of fearing that she would lose her beloved godfather, amnesia wasn't such a terrible thing.

Standing in the hall outside John's room watching him laugh and joke with his niece as he sat in the chair by the open window, I said another silent prayer of thanks that I had succeeded in my hard-fought efforts as a physician. A light breeze ruffled his loose, thick hair while rays of bright sunshine masked the last splotches of discoloration that marked his face. His strong soldier's hands covered Dottie's small-boned hands affectionately.

"Friend Grey's recovery is a great blessing for all of us," Denny said sincerely.

"I give due credit to your persistent Quaker prayers to the Almighty."

"My prayers were not directly for his recovery. I asked that the Lord guide thy hands and mind to bring it about."

With a firm squeeze to Denny's arm, I said, "I thank you for your confidence in my abilities. That first day, I couldn't have done as well as I did without your help."

Denny laughed. "Thy patient did not like my recommendation of another week's bed rest."

"If I can keep him up here for another two or three days, it will be a miracle," I laughed.

"John is too active and far too restive for such a long period of inactivity, especially now that he knows he needs to prepare for his niece's wedding."

"I may have made thy efforts as his physician more difficult, and I apologize, Claire."

A sudden gale of laughter from John and Dottie filled the hall. Denny and I smiled at each other.

"They say laughter is the best medicine, along with happy news."

"Has my sister given thee her good news?" Seeing the surprised look on my face, he said, "She and your nephew will be marrying also. It will be a simple, private Quaker rite after our more formal wedding. Would thee care to attend? It will be in our rooms at the inn."

"I'll talk to Rachel about it." I also intended to talk to both Dottie and Rachel about birth control. If they were going to war with their husbands, neither young woman could risk a pregnancy. I knew Denny would understand the need. I hoped Ian would as well despite his Scot's pride, and remembering his old sorrow over his lost child.

Avoiding the family entanglements that my presence at Rachel and Ian's marriage would likely aggravate, I changed the subject. "When will you and Dottie be leaving to rejoin the Continental Army?"

Denny's quizzical expression behind his spectacles lasted only as long as it took his good manners to subdue his curiosity. "Soon, hence our revised wedding plans. Would thee consider returning to the medical corp? Thy skill and experience would be greatly welcomed as they were at Ticonderoga and Saratoga."

"I was planning a move to Boston to establish a practice there. Once I know John is fully recovered, I'll make my decision."

We were quiet for several moments then Denny took my arm and walked me down the hall. "When I studied under John Hunter in London, I observed two cases of amnesia. One was of short duration lasting only a few weeks with a full recovery by the woman patient. The other, an older gentleman, had steadily deteriorated both physically and mentally until he was completely helpless. Have thee any experience with such cases?"

"I would guess that the man's long term amnesia was due to a brain injury," I responded clinically.

"I pray that such will not be the case for Friend Grey."

A small frisson of doubt intruded on my pride in my medical accomplishment. "As do I."

"Will thee be informing thy patient of his unexpected condition?"

"I feel that would be best. If his memory of that day should come back suddenly, the shock of what happened would do his recovery no good. It's what I intend to recommend to William. It is, of course, his decision."

"I understand many Loyalists are planning to flee the city when the army leaves either out of anger at us or in fear of reprisals. Does thee think Friend Grey will also leave?"

"It would probably be best, especially if the amnesia persists. John's actual home is a plantation in Virginia where he and William have spent most of the last ten years." In one way, I hoped he would never remember. There were too many painful truths that one lost day had spawned. He was, as I'd told Jamie, a caring, honorable man. He didn't deserve the pain those memories would bring out into the open. What I couldn't say to Denny was that with John's belief that Jamie was dead, he could go back to his normal life at Mount Josiah that included Manoke, and perhaps find some real happiness and personal peace at long last.

A sudden knot of something old, familiar and rather ugly ran through me that I quickly brought to rein. I remembered it clearly from my meeting with John that night in Jamaica. It was jealousy, an emotion I had a right to then having encountered, face to face, John's blatant sodomite attachment to my husband. This unexpected jealousy I did not have a right to claim, but it was there.

Denny's hand came to rest on my shoulder. I could see many questions on his face but knew he would never ask them for which I was very grateful. "If thee should decide to rejoin with the Continental Army here in the north, thee has a place with us."

I had never expected Quakers to be so openly affectionate. Denny's soft kiss on my cheek was a welcome surprise. "Please give my best to William," and he turned toward the head of the stairs.

* * *

As stripes of mauve and gold sunset spread across the clear sky, I heard two horses come into the backyard and head to the barn. I waited at the back door for William and his orderly, Colenso Baragwanath.

In the glow of the sconces in the back hall, I could see sharp lines of alarm on my stepson's face. "Is Papa…?"

"He is doing well. Something else has shown itself, and we need to talk."

The fear changed to a less blatant but still tense concern. Then I noticed another set of lines was creasing the usually smooth skin around the slanted eyes of his narrow face. What Denny had told me earlier was having its reactions on the other side of this conflict. As a British officer, William would be a major part of any withdrawal.

"Everyone has retired for the night. If you're hungry…"

William shook his head. "I must speak with my father first. Colenso?"

In his jumbled Cornish accent I understood the very young soldier's answer to his state of hunger to be "yes". Ushering him toward the kitchen, I said, "I'll wait for you in the dining room with your supper."

He nodded then went out to the front hall.

* * *

It was over an hour later that my stepson lowered himself heavily into a side chair at the long table. He had changed out of his dusty, sweaty uniform into a pair of simple tan breeches and a clean linen shirt. His chestnut hair was damp from a quick wash, with soft waves framing his high cheekbones and forehead. The stress of command had lessened somewhat now that he'd spoken with John.

Picking up one of Mrs. Figg's potato scones, he asked, "Tell me."

I had carefully rehearsed the explanation of John's amnesia. William was deeply attentive as each word filled in the picture of his father's condition, the scone forgotten in his hand.

Tensely, he asked, "This amnesia, is it a danger to Papa's full recovery?"

"Not at all. He simply has no memory of that one day."

"Good!" he said brusquely, and took a large bite of the thick brown scone.

His reaction was so unexpected I had to reevaluate the selection of responses I had composed. "I was going to recommend that your father be told about the amnesia, and what occurred that day."

"Why?" Not waiting for my answer, he attacked the bowl of rabbit stew with gusto, methodically picking out the chunks of celery and pushing them to the side of the bowl.

"Because he must. What do you think will happen if your father suddenly regains his memory? The shock of reliving all that brutality and pain would be devastating."

"_Will_ he regain his memory of that day?" he asked stubbornly.

"Well, he may, in time." I had to be truthful, "Or he may not." There was that three-pronged show of emotion on Willie's face again. This time I saw anger, hope and a fierce protectiveness. "Why don't you want him to remember?"

His mouth set into a long, thin line. "If he were to continue in his belief that Fraser is dead, he will finally let go of the bloody man!"

Yes, William Ransom had been controlling a great many emotional reactions since that night. His conclusions on this particular topic were as graphic and full of rage as Jamie's words had been.

Putting down his spoon, his hunger no longer a concern, he said, "I spoke to Dottie when I was upstairs. She told me about the wedding and that she and Denny would be returning to the Continental Army."

A long-honed instinct made me hold my tongue, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Since Papa is well known and respected by the command staff here, I will be able to take him with me when I leave for Savannah."

There was a great deal of military information in that simple statement, but I let it pass. Of all the pronouncements I had considered, this last was never a consideration. My own protectiveness of my patient roused hotly. "Absolutely not! Weeks of overland travel living rough day and night would be too dangerous to his full recovery!"

Surprise and a spark of caution showed as Willie stared at me across the table. "What would you suggest, madam?"

The intonation and phrasing were pure John Grey, his carefully crafted directness when addressing me in one of our regular disagreements.

Taking a deep breath, I plunged into my recommendation, knowing full well I would be committing myself to the exact course of action I had rejected both before and since Jamie's resurrection. "Mount Josiah is home and that's where your father should be taken to rest and regain his strength.' Picturing the ways and means came to me as a daydream of inspiration. "A leisurely sail along the coast from here to Norfolk then a comfortable boat trip up the James River from Chesapeake Bay to the plantation." Abruptly, I ran out of images, avoiding the one I didn't know how to deal with at the moment.

With a quirked eyebrow, Willie asked, "And who will accompany Papa on this journey home?"

I mouthed an abbreviated Hail Mary to give myself courage, and said, "I will. I promised I would stay with your father as long as he needed me."

Again there was a weighty silence from the other side of the table. I had expected any one of several questions from Willie. Instead he smiled, and in a soft voice said, "I have never seen my father as happy and content as he's been over these last weeks since you came here to live."

Girding my loins for the battle of wills and words my stepson's opening salvo made poignantly clear, I said, "Your father has known from the beginning I wouldn't be staying. As an American and a physician, my calling is elsewhere."

"And your preexisting marriage?" There was a bitter edge in his voice. I guessed it was another layer of his hate for Jamie and the pain he'd caused me that night.

I felt my body shake in unwelcome memory of Jamie's heavy, demanding maleness crushing me in his vengeful lust. I hoped the words I forced out of my mouth were in as firm a conviction of rationality as my brain was thinking them. "I have taken action to end the marriage." It was a relief to say it out loud. I found it unnecessary to add my reasons.

A mischievous smile I'd never seen on William's face presaged his startling conclusion to my announcement, "Then there will not be any impediment to your forming a true, legal marriage with my father."

I had kept my silence about John's secret all these years for numerous reasons. There was no need to pretend with his son after what he'd heard of Jamie's cruel words. "There is a very imposing and long standing obstacle – Manoke."

His youthful romanticism came out in his words, "Papa doesn't _love_ his Indian friend, and vice versa. I know."

I raised my eyebrow questioningly at that implication. When he didn't elaborate, I said, "They have been physical companions for many years." After my polite description, I remembered John's own words to me the morning I woke beside him, that there was simply a true liking with no sense of possession. Was love so different to him? It always had been so to Jamie. Bloody men!

Despite his relatively innocent youth, did William see more in his father's behavior toward me than I had seen? Or was it that I didn't want to acknowledge John's growing warmth and affection because I had felt my own answering need?

With his next words, the pure, passionate gentleman that was his true nature showed itself. "You already know Papa is capable of loving a woman, and I use the word in both its physical and emotional sense," he stated without the least flicker of embarrassment. His long, muscular arm reached across the table and he took my hand. "I do not know any intimate details of Papa's early experiences. He must have loved someone deeply in his youth and lost them. The loss seems to have left him afraid to trust and truly love again. That clandestine, hidden life is not open to fidelity and constancy. His pointless and empty attachment to Fraser was the worst thing that could have happened to him."

I wanted to say that the love between him and his father replaced that but I knew he was talking about a form of love that was very different.

"Papa truly does enjoy the life he has built for himself. His loneliness has been clear to me more and more over the years though. As much as I loved Mother Isobel, she was far from caring or affectionate with him. Her distance was something he just accepted. My father is the most honorable man I know. Despite the stigma attached to his nature, I have accepted it due to his circumspect behavior, always aware of his reputation, his honor as a Grey and as a soldier. Most of all, he has protected me. He is the true hero in this whole sordid affair."

William's silence after his weighty soliloquy had left him emotionally drained. I wasn't sure how to react at first. His deep perceptiveness about his father amazed me. His reaction to finding out he was a bastard had been so extreme, yet John's sodomite secret was minor to him. Both were disgraceful moral conditions in this society. Strangely, William had interpreted them as separate. In his young eyes, Jamie was completely evil while John could do no wrong. After all Jamie's revelations, I couldn't dispute my stepson's conclusions. As for John, there were many things I didn't know about him. He _was _very good at keeping secrets.

If it weren't for his deep sincerity, I would have told him jokingly that he had been reading too many romance novels. I had felt too much between the lines, inferences to Jamie in particular, to treat William's feelings with anything but the highest respect.

He had changed so much since his return from England two years ago. The man he had become had emerged with a strength and depth of spirit and empathy I had seen only once before, in my daughter Brianna. The night after John Grey and William had left Fraser's Ridge, Jamie had held me, not in passion but in regret, whispering that Willie should have been our child, and would I forgive him for giving his seed to another. Not knowing the full truth then, I had said I did. In light of recent events, I realized that she and William were the best of their Highland sire, no matter who had birthed each of them. They were gifts that would always be mine to cherish.

"I know I'm asking a great deal of you after your own pain and tragedy. I will understand if you fulfill your professional responsibilities to Papa then move on. Knowing the man he is, he will accept your going with no rancor against you."

The choking emotions that coalesced in my throat were hard to control at first. I had to respond.

"A marriage is a very complicated arrangement if it is to grow and flourish into a true partnership." I fought down the rising memories of my years with Jamie. "For someone like your father it is even more so. I can't make a commitment without talking to him so we understand what each of us will want if I stay. Your father knows me too well to expect a quiet, easy life, as I know the same of him. The most important thing is that I can't make promises that are not honest and truly meant. I could never do that to my dear friend John Grey. He _does_ deserve to be happy. I'll stay but only if I'm sure I can give him that."

William pressed my hand tightly in his then let go. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Mother Claire." Standing, he gathered his now cold bowl of stew and plopped the two remaining scones into it. "I'm tired as well as hungry, so I will beg your leave to see you in the morning." Smiling, he started for the door. Over his shoulder he said, "One last thing. Once you and Papa are legally married, would you mind if I call you Mama?"

Another choking lump in my throat at the sweet name my daughter had always called me. "I wouldn't mind at all, Willie."

As he reached the foot of the staircase and began his sure-footed, long-limbed climb, my stepson started to whistle. I recognized the tune as "Lilibulero", the jaunty and pleasant piece John favored. It was also very much on key. I definitely had the feeling I'd been deviously manipulated, in a very loving and benevolent way, by the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

* * *

By the time I had methodically secured the downstairs level for the night and began climbing the stairs, I knew I had no time for leisurely introspective contemplation regarding my promise to Willie or my desire to sort and define my own feelings. There were only ten days to prepare both a wedding and for the trip to Mount Josiah. I wasn't alone in those events. They involved both John and me. I had to make a choice now.

John was still awake, propped up comfortably against the two extra pillows, reading "The Sorrows of Young Werner". I sent Dottie off to bed, closing the bedroom door for privacy. Settling myself in the chair beside his bed, I breathed deeply, finally deciding on an opening sentence.

Marking his page with a well-worn strip of decoratively tooled leather, John put his book aside. Pinpoints of candlelight reflected off his large blue eyes. Smiling indulgently, he said, "You are so serious, my dear. Is something amiss?"

Looking him straight in the eye, I answered, "Due to the impending changes here in Philadelphia, I feel it would be best for you to return to Mount Josiah to recuperate. William and I will make all the arrangements so you won't need to overtax yourself."

I could see a wave of reactions forming on John's suddenly stern face. Instead of speaking, he reached for one of my hands that I had clenched firmly in my lap. Despite his broken ribs, he pulled me out of the chair and onto the bed beside him.

"Claire, you are speaking to me as my physician. I would appreciate it very much if you would talk to me as my wife." The pressure of his hand around mine was strong yet gently persistent.

At first I was stunned that he addressed me so intimately as wife. Then I remembered he wouldn't consider me otherwise. Jamie was dead to him, and he had married me in law despite the haste of that day. I wasn't sure where to begin. There were so many topics that needed to be addressed.

John solved my dilemma by asking, "Will you be accompanying me to Virginia?"

"Yes," I answered briskly.

"Will you be staying, as my wife?" It was a very direct Lord John Grey question, and he expected a direct answer.

"I don't know." His silence was puzzling, so I asked my own question, "Do you want me to?"

With a lengthy exhale, he sighed. "I don't know." My glass face must have said more than I intended it to. Quietly but firmly he explained, "I have been questioning myself in recent weeks. Who I am. What I want. I know the attraction to men will never go away. It is my choice whether or not I act on it. Lustful pleasures of the flesh are fleeting things which are mostly what I have known." He laughed deeply. "Strangely, I have spent most of the last twenty years living a celibate life, partially out of choice, partly from lack of opportunity. Now I want something more."

"William told me he's never seen you as happy as you are with me. Is that true, John?" I needed to hear his answer, but was equally afraid of it.

A slight smile played around John's lips. "My son is more astute and observant than I thought him to be. I must remember that in future." Thoughtfully, he continued, "At first, my grief for Jamie was as painful as yours. I considered him my constant, my true north. You know how deep my feelings for him were since Ardsmuir. There _have been_ manytimes over the years when I wished I had never met him. Now that he's gone, I find myself relieved to have it over. I have no desire to continue loving a dead man. It is a chance to move on with my life at last. My past would have been far less…" and he struggled uncharacteristically for a word.

"Tortured?" I suggested blandly.

"You are as coldly direct as ever, my dear. It is one of your most endearing qualities," he answered, his lips expanding into a full smile. "I want and need something and someone to fill that unique emptiness I find myself staring into each day. I don't mean to detract from your life with Jamie, and I could never take his place. I do wish to try to the best of my ability to give you a happy life again. In recent days I have sensed a more personal warmth and affection from you. I heard what you said when I stopped breathing that first night. Your voice expressed much more than I would have expected from a physician. I can give you physical pleasure as you've known it in your marriage. I also know there is much more to a devoted, loving union than that. If I presume too much, please tell me so."

"You're not wrong," I answered with complete honesty. "My adjustment to embracing another wouldn't be denying my past. I am going to be brutally honest, John. I would expect complete fidelity from you. Can you give me that despite your natural needs and desires? I don't want you to sacrifice the man I have come to respect and care about to a humiliating mask of painful pretense and denial. If you agree to share a life with me, I want you to be truly happy in that life. You described your physical relationship with Manoke as one without possession. A marriage under law denotes possession."

John's smile carried so many emotions, I was at a loss to grasp them all. Thankfully, his raspy next words gave a concrete answer, "And love given freely and devotedly is a voluntary possession. Yes, I do want you to stay with me, as my wife, and not solely in name. I want you as my friend and companion, and as my lover. It's what I hope you want from me as well."

"You diminish yourself wrongly, John. You are Jamie's equal in every way." I wanted to say so much more, that he was perhaps more of a man in truth, but couldn't without giving away Jamie's existence on this side of the veil.

"From anyone else, I would consider that the grossest of flatteries. You truly believe that of me?"

The awe and amazement in his voice made me want to tell him the truth. With a monumental effort, I kept silent turning to a topic that had the potential for levity. "I would prove it by the most direct of physical demonstrations if it wasn't for your present condition."

"Yes, well. I am in hopes that the teasing sparks and twinges of desire in my privates when I think of you and look at you are indications that the mayhem perpetrated upon my person won't leave me a eunuch."

I couldn't help a soft laugh. "The leeches have done all they can. The rest of the healing is simply a matter of time and patience."

With a telling cringe at the mention of leeches, John said, "Thank goodness."

"Do you think I would agree to stay and be your wife if there was no hope of my being thoroughly and regularly bedded? I may be significantly older than you, John Grey, and beyond childbearing age, but I do expect my conjugal rights to be met."

The hesitancy and sweet shyness that had kept John from touching me beyond the handholding was discarded. Two strong arms enfolded me against a chest vital with steady breaths and strong heartbeats. His mouth covered mine in a deep kiss of wanting. I very easily gave him back every bit of open passion from a freely growing affection.

A woman of my long experience, in love and with men, I should have been able to respond with the right words to such a deeply loving show of passion. Instead my eyes began to drip wet, sloppy tears, and I said the most truthful thing that my heart had been whispering for days, "When I'm with you, I feel safe. You are a true man of honor, John Grey. If you feel that's sufficient for us to start a marriage, I'll stay. We can add other things as we go along." My tears ceased and in their place I felt a comfort and peace I had been afraid I would never know again.

His voice showing the strain of all the talking, he said hoarsely, "I vow on my honor, Claire, that I will never betray you with my words, with my body or in my love for you."

Before he could say anymore, I covered his mouth with my fingers. "No more talking. I can tell your throat is very sore. You don't want to ruin all my efforts and have to go back to infusions and herbal teas again, do you?"

His soft breath whispered in my ear, "No," and he kissed me again. When the kiss ended, he stared at me, and pulled me closer. "Stay?"

"Yes."

While John pulled back the covers, I dropped my robe onto the chair. Slipping into bed beside him, I opened my arms. This night I would hold _him_ close.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: In The Name of Honor - Part 1 Secrets and Lies – Chapter 4

Author: Marianne H. Stillie

Categories/Genres: Fantasy; Drama; Hurt/Comfort; Romance

Rating: T

Pairing: Claire and Lord John Grey

Summary: The secrets and lies of the past conspire to change the present and future for Claire and Lord John Grey.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places for the Outlander Novels are the property of Diana Gabaldon, Bantam Books, The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks are intended. Previously unrecognized characters, places and this story are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Archive: Please do not archive anywhere without the author's permission.

Copyright (c) 2012 Marianne H. Stillie

* * *

In The Name of Honor

Part 1 – Secrets and Lies

Chapter 4

I refilled my plate with a third ramekin of shirred eggs, sausages and toast from the sideboard, dribbling a generous stream of honey across the buttered bread. Returning to my seat across the table from my cousin and Rachel Hunter, I said, "I realize what I'm asking is difficult, Dottie, but there's no help for it. If Mr. Murray won't agree to my decision to keep Papa from knowing about his amnesia, I can't allow him in this house. I would be pleased to stand up with Denny in his stead."

Quickly cutting in before Dottie could answer, Rachel said, "If I agree to arrange the meeting, Friend William, I must ask that thee keep thy temper."

"You have my word as a gentleman, Rachel. Will Mr. Murray do likewise?"

"That was uncalled for, Willie!" Dottie said harshly.

From the front hall, Mrs. Figg's strong voice rolled into the dining room, even sharper than her usually loud timbre, "Lord John! Good to see ya downstairs again. Breakfast's all laid out on the sideboard, so help yerselves."

In a scratchy voice, John answered, "I am famished from a long night's sleep, Mrs. Figg. I would greatly enjoy some of your excellent cooking to begin my day."

With his arm tightly wound around Claire's, my father stepped slowly into the dining room. Standing, I took careful note of his stiff movements. Though outwardly healed, the abuse his body had suffered at Fraser's hands was still causing him pain. I also noticed the loving smile he gave my stepmother, his body leaning heavily into her side.

I went to help him, but he waved me off, preferring Claire to lead him to the captain's chair at the head of the table. She carefully assisted him into the chair then pulled the nearest side chair closer to him. With her own smile, she settled her gold silk-robed body as grandly as a great lady at a royal ball.

Dottie went to stand beside her uncle's chair. Hugging him gently, she asked, "What would thee like to eat, Uncle John?"

"A modest helping of everything. And tea, of course," and he winked at Claire.

Catching my stepmother's eye, I inclined my head questioningly. Her radiant smile confirmed what I had hoped - they had shared a bed the night before. "May I bring you a plate, Mother Claire?"

"I'll have the same as your father. Thank you, William."

I placed the filled plates in front of Papa and Mother Claire while Dottie served their tea. Resuming our seats, we went back to our own meals.

My father ate slowly, his almost-healed face enjoying the more substantial food than he had been used to over the past ten days. When he had consumed a goodly portion of what was on his plate, I asked, "Did Mother Claire tell you her wonderful idea, Papa?"

Swallowing the mouthful of preserved pears he had been methodically chewing, he answered, "If you mean that we are returning to Mount Josiah after the wedding, yes she did."

Feeling like a mischievous child in conspiracy with my stepmother, I turned to Claire and asked, "You didn't mention the sea voyage?"

With as straight a face as she could manage, Claire answered, "I wanted to make sure we could find comfortable accommodations first before I told you, John."

"I'm going to visit the docks this morning to see what ships will be available for passage after the wedding," I added.

After his initial raised eyebrow at our surprising news, both Mother Claire and I waited expectantly for Papa's reaction. His deep moments of thought ended, he said, "That is a marvelous idea, my dear ones. So much more pleasant and faster than land travel." He picked up her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. "A good friend, Dermot O'Bannion, has a booking office on Front Street. He will help you with the arrangements."

"The passenger cabin _must_ be comfortable, Willie. Your father and I want to enjoy our trip as a belated honeymoon."

Controlling my amusement, I said, "Of course, Mother Claire."

Joining in the charade, Dottie chimed in, "How exciting, Uncle John! I wish Denny and I could do the same. Alas, our honeymoon will have to wait."

I noticed that Rachel was looking somewhat embarrassed by our pretense. Then I realized why. Since she knew that my stepmother's true husband was still alive, Papa and Mother Claire living as husband and wife would offend her Quaker moral standards. Despite our friendship, I felt no need to explain.

Animated by the exciting news, my father waved a dripping spoon of egg yolk above his plate. "Look for a modest-sized merchantman, Willie. Smythe's last letter to me requested certain items we are in need of at the plantation. Manoke's requests for his kitchen were more grandiose than usual. He must be experimenting with his menus again."

I grimaced. "The last time he did that, the smokehouse was overflowing with a selection of every fish known in Virginia and North Carolina. I was very glad when it was time to leave for Norfolk and my ship to London."

Having been there at the time of the Indian cook's great fish experiment, my father laughed heartily. Turning to his blossoming plans for his return home to Mount Josiah, he said, "Since I will be accompanying the supplies, I want to replenish my wine cellar. My own vintages have been sorely neglected in my two year absence." A cough and a brisk clearing of his throat, my father continued, "There are also the items for Claire's medical office that are available only here," and he covered her hand with his.

"My medical office?" Her surprise was so sharp, her voice wavered. "You want me to set up a practice at Mount Josiah?"

"Of course! Now that the best and most unique physician in the colonies will be in my home, I want you to share the profession you love so much."

I looked from my father to my stepmother and laughed. "Why don't you each make up lists while I look for a ship."

"Another excellent idea. With my physician's permission, I shall spend the day in the parlor," John grinned at Claire.

Her surprise diverted, Claire took on her sternest professional tone of voice, "As long as you don't get any ideas about going outside for a walk."

Finishing the last of his tea, Papa saluted with his cup. "I wouldn't think of disobeying your orders, my dear. That room will be quite adequate for my needs since it has a comfortable settee. My portable writing desk with paper, ink and a jar of quills should suffice for lists, and to answer my sorely neglected correspondence."

Smiling, Rachel added, "And reading more of thy new book, Friend Grey."

"Thank you for reminding me, dear Miss Hunter," he said, bowing his head cavalierly.

"I have errands to run this morning, but will be back in time for luncheon with you, John. I'll attend to my list then." Turning to Dottie, Claire said, "I understand you and Rachel will be visiting a sempstress for your wedding dresses."

"Yes, Aunt Claire. As well as other shopping." Both young women giggled openly.

"I suggest you hire a carriage to accompany you around the city. When your shopping is done, you can deliver Rachel back to the inn which I'm sure she is anxious to see again," I said helpfully.

Surprised, Rachel turned to Claire, "You will no longer be needing an extra person to sit with Friend Grey?"

My father answered for her, "As you can see, Friend Rachel, I am well enough to participate in the daily routine of the household. My wife will be attending to my needs full time now."

I cleared my throat noticeably to cover another offended reaction by Rachel to my father's explanation. That distraction was also needed to divert attention from the faint flush I saw blooming on my father and stepmother's cheeks. Considering their ages, I was very taken by the youthful shyness they were both exhibiting.

"With all of us out, that leaves you, Papa, and Mrs. Figg to hold down the fortress," I teased.

"Along with my writing and reading, I plan to go over the menus for the balance of the day. Are there any food requests that I can pass on to Mrs. Figg?"

Claire nodded a silent "no" while Dottie and I jested that we would leave any changes for supper in his capable hands.

Dottie, Rachel and I stood up. As my cousin and her maid of honor passed Papa's chair, Dottie kissed him on the cheek while Rachel briefly rested her hand on his shoulder then they left the room.

I squeezed my father's shoulder affectionately. Before I could take my hand away, his delicate-boned hand rested atop mine with a firm answering pressure. I wasn't sure what it meant beyond the obvious show of affection between us, but the warmth implicit in the gesture made me feel especially pleased at my conversation with Mother Claire last night.

In profound gratitude, I kissed my stepmother's cheek then went through the hall and out to the barn where Colenso was saddling my horse.

* * *

Despite the intermittent late spring showers that had dampened the city during the morning, I had enjoyed a glorious shopping adventure, both window and actual.

My first stop had been my attorney's office further down on Chestnut Street across from the Georgian red brick Pennsylvania State House that was being used as a hospital. With the current British occupation, the Second Continental Congress was temporarily ensconced in York, a condition I knew wouldn't last much longer. I gave approval to the simple, basic wording and signed the divorce document. The final thing that was needed to end my marriage was Jamie's signature, which could be a problem if he had departed the city. I left the possible repercussions of that behind temporarily as I headed for the next stop on my planned circuit of the city.

Most of my purchases would require delivery to the Chestnut Street house since they were primarily medical instruments and equipment for my new office. The thought of having a surgery again gave me shivers of delight and expectation. Not that I wished illness or injury on John's people at Mount Josiah or in the surrounding countryside. I was simply very anxious to be of use again. My surgeon's hands had felt revitalized while tending John.

I was finding it very easy to spend John's money. He had been wealthy all his life, using what he had wisely. He trusted me not to be frivolous, and I wasn't. I had lived frugally for fifteen years with Jamie so it just came naturally. John Grey was the one who had been lavish with gifts for me. I was pleased that I had been able to find two special items for him. I would give him the gifts tonight as a way of sealing our marriage bargain. The physical consummation to our agreement would come later when his body was fully healed.

Mrs. Figg had cleared our luncheon dishes leaving the table in front of the settee free for my own list making. She had left the crystal vase of heavily fragrant mauve cabbage roses from the garden.

Despite the growing chaos of the impending withdrawal, William and John's friend had found a comfortable, seaworthy craft that the British hadn't commandeered for their own use for our journey south. The size was more than adequate for the diverse cargo we were taking to Mount Josiah. The craftsmen and merchants I had visited were more than pleased to accommodate us in exchange for John's hard currency.

"The vitriol and glass apparatus will require very careful packing for our voyage. Will we need to submit a detailed list of our cargo to the ship's captain?"

When John didn't answer, I looked up over my gold-rimmed reading spectacles. He was staring out the double windows behind the settee, his arm draped across the back. His trim body was stretched out to its full length, the dark blue silk banyan fallen open to his waist. Through his nightshirt, I could see he was so still he was barely breathing.

"John?" When he didn't answer, a fleeting alarm touched me that he was having a relapse of some kind. But there was no sign of physical distress. I called his name again. This time he turned his head toward me, his pale blue eyes focused clearly. There was no pain in his expression, only an obvious sadness.

"Is something wrong, John?" He had been subdued since I'd returned, his conversation during our meal distracted. It was as if a wall had sprung up between us since our pleasant family breakfast.

Clearing his throat, a habit he'd acquired since his injury, he said softly, "I had hoped our differences in this war wouldn't interfere in our marriage so soon."

In consideration of each other's opposing loyalties, we never talked politics. He had taken my comment to him at the Meschianza gala honoring General Howe before his departure for New York to "wait and see" seriously. Now that we were committed to making our marriage work, I saw no reason to take an active part with the Sons of Liberty. The American Revolution would resolve itself as per the history books. Despite his extensive contacts in the military, John had chosen to become a neutral observer of the events unfolding around us.

With a light laugh, I said, "I've abandoned my life of crime as a spy out of respect for you," hoping to open up a dialogue.

John's response was immediate and solemn, "I know your sense of honor would never do otherwise. For my part, I would never take any action to compromise your impeccable conscience, my dear." His thoughtful pause was very brief but noticeable then he went on, "The difficulty is that I need to talk to you, my wife, regarding a personal family matter that may cross that line between us."

I was about to ask what he meant when that twentieth century cartoon image of a light bulb appearing above my head gave me my answer. "This is about Willie, isn't it?"

"Yes." John's hesitation to explain further spurred me into action.

Removing my spectacles, I pulled the table away from the settee and sat beside him. "Our son is a personal family matter that is above politics for both of us." I was surprised to hear myself call William by such an intimate family designation though I knew in my heart it was right.

The startled expression on John's face at my words changed to a wondrous glow of love and gratitude. "William, _our son_, has been exchanged. He is returning to full active duty within the month."

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. The laughter was for the very clever way I had been manipulated by my stepson. The "why" was the cause for tears. With everyone leaving him, Dottie to follow her new husband with the Continental Army, and William to wherever the British Army would make their next stand against the rebels, John would be left alone. Willie's deep love for his adopted father was stronger than many young men felt for their blood sires. I was very proud of him. I was even prouder of the man who had raised him to love that way. Another strong insight surfaced as I acknowledged that John was by far the better man, as Frank had been the better man by loving Brianna who wasn't his own blood.

There were no words for the emotions that surrounded us so we reached for each other, in comfort and understanding, and with a love that had grown another notch.

John's arms were holding me tightly, but his body was lax. He tended to tire easily and usually napped during the day. The stress and turmoil he'd been holding in since last night when William had told him his news, had taken its toll.

Tenderly caressing his back, I said, "Would you mind if I spoke as your doctor?"

"Only if it's something I'll enjoy," he chuckled against my neck.

"How about a leisurely walk upstairs then you tucked snugly into bed for a nap before tea? I even have two presents waiting in our room."

Leaning back against the settee, John spoke in a very serious tone of voice, "I do not bribe easily, madam."

"If I lie with you until you're asleep, would that help?"

With a deep exhale of breath, he answered, "I surrender."

* * *

After my busy morning, it was a relief to strip off my gown, stays and stockings, and settle comfortably beside John in my shift. I had drawn the curtains to block the afternoon sunlight that was flooding our bedroom and placed my two gifts on the mattress between us.

In that appraising way of his, John contemplated the packages, one wrapped in a long, brown leather case, the other in a russet cloth sack tied with a red satin ribbon.

As John reached for the cloth bag, I snickered softly. "I was sure you'd choose the other one first."

Cocking his healed eyebrow at me, he untied the length of ribbon. "I'm pleased to have surprised you again." Grabbing the neck of the wine bottle that had revealed itself, he closely scrutinized the label. In amazement, he asked, "Where did you find this?"

"I remembered your critique of the wines at the gala last month. You repeatedly mentioned a superb Austrian red, Schilcher, you'd had years ago. Mr. Briggs came into possession of a stray shipment from New York that no one wanted. This was among the very diverse selection of potables."

Nostalgically, John said softly, "Many years ago." He leaned across the pillows and kissed me deeply with a lingering note of subdued passion. "Thank you for this wonderful surprise. As soon as I'm able, I want to visit the shop to see what else they have for our wine cellar at Mount Josiah. Hopefully, they have more of this," and he held up the bottle.

With a tightly manufactured frown, I said, "A customer purchased their last five bottles." There was a noticeable disappointment on John's face, and I had to laugh. "They'll be delivered here tomorrow."

"You are such a tease, my dear," and he kissed me again. This time his tongue slid pleasantly across my front teeth.

Picking up the bottle, I asked, "Shall we?"

"I've asked Mrs. Figg to make a special supper with Willie's favorites including peach cobbler. The Schilcher deserves a special meal to go with it."

"Willie told me you hate peaches."

"I do." Laughing, he added, "Manoke is an Iroquois from Quebec. Do you seriously believe it was his notion to secretly make peach cobbler for William?"

"I know there's more to this story, but for now…" This time I leaned across the pillows and kissed him so fully on the mouth he was caught by surprise. Caressing his cheek, I continued, "You are a wonderful father, John Grey."

"Thank you." Picking up the leather-covered item, he pondered, "I wonder what this could be?" He hefted it to feel the weight then unbuttoned the stiff flap of the case.

Even though I knew what the gift was, I excitedly sat up cross-legged as John removed the Malacca wood walking stick from its case. He scrutinized the fine workmanship of the silver grip at the top that expertly depicted a magnificent lion's head then balanced it between his hands.

When he didn't say anything, I jumped in, "It's for when you venture out as added protection. I know you always carry a dagger, but this is something special." Taking hold of the polished wood just below the grip, I worked the release mechanism and raised the steel rapier that was attached to the silver lion's head. "I chose the lion's head grip because the mane reminds me of you when your hair is loose across your shoulders." Smiling nervously, I looked into John's questioning eyes. "Do you like it?"

"It is exquisite. Thank you." Quizzically, he asked, "What should I do with it?"

I was so startled by his serious question, I stammered, "Well, you can use it to help you go up and down the stairs by yourself to start."

"Hmm," he said softly. "What else?"

"We could go for a walk around the yard tomorrow if you feel up to it. You could use the exercise after so many days in bed."

"I would like that. Perhaps Willie could accompany me on a small excursion around the city the next day?" Holding up the sharply pointed blade with its finely serrated edge along one side, John moved it elegantly in his fencing-trained hand. "I'm sure this will protect us quite nicely."

It was then I noticed the beginning of a smile at the corners of his sensuous mouth. "Has anyone ever told you you're a manipulative bastard, John Grey?"

Used to my crude language, he answered calmly, "You are the first that I know of, my sweet Lady Grey," and the sensuous mouth covered mine hungrily.

When I found my voice after John's very robust kiss, I said, "And your son is just like you."

In response he simply laughed, and returned the rapier to its sheath. "Your gift will come in quite handy once we're at Mount Josiah. There is a family of rather aggressive raccoons on the property that regularly raid the cookhouses, pantry and smokehouses. I will be able to vanquish them in grand style with my lion."

Falling into his arms, we collapsed into gales of laughter on the bed. The feel of John's body, so different and so new against mine, gave me another moment of surety in my decision to stay with him.

We settled against the pillows, our breathing falling into matching rhythms.

"Tell me about Mount Josiah."

In his thorough and detailed way, John drew a colorful verbal picture of the new home he would be taking me to soon. Sleep finally claimed both of us with a promise of dreams about mischievous raccoons, a majestic river and vast fields of tobacco.

* * *

For my visit to the Gray Moss Inn to meet Ian Murray, I had decided to wear my uniform. Not the full dress version but enough red, gold buttons and my captain's gorget to make it clear which side I was on. My hair, sans powder, was neatly plaited under my immaculate tricorne. I knew who I was trying to intimidate with my formal appearance and why.

The inn was just in from the formerly busy King's Highway crossroad that led north to Boston and south to Charleston. Since the occupation, all traffic in and out of the city had been severely curtailed. This inn had become a place for military lodging and entertainment.

Though civilians and Quakers, Denny and Rachel were under my father's protection and were allowed to stay after my cousin Henry's surgery. Knowing their true status as rebel sympathizers, I had asked Papa how he had managed such an unusual dispensation. With the aristocratic officer's laugh I had heard him use over the years, he explained that he had paid a courtesy call on General William Howe soon after the arrival of the British Army. The two men were of an age, and shared a certain past history in common as soldiers, that of the taking of Quebec in fifty-nine. Yet he and the general had never met. After a hearty dinner and a few bottles of potent beverages, he had made common cause with the man and his sympathies toward the Continentals. I was tempted to press my father for details but sensed this was one of those personal subjects Papa preferred to keep to himself.

The winter had seriously curtailed the food supply leaving primarily alcohol, gaming and other pastimes for the inn's occupants. With the spring, fresh meat and produce were available in the city once more, the foraging parties and the rebels resuming their harassment of each other. The taproom and dining room were doing a brisk business with the setting sun. Most of the diners were off duty officers I had become acquainted with during my time in Philadelphia. I nodded courteously as I passed their tables making it clear that I preferred not to stop for social conversation.

I was glad I had eaten before I left the house. Known for its excellent cuisine, the enticing smells of roasting and stewing swirling through the establishment would have been another distraction to my mission. I had promised Rachel Hunter I would hold my temper in check. The words I needed to say to this relative of the man I most despised required a control I wasn't sure I could maintain if Murray took to defending his bloody uncle. My military training and discipline would go only so far. What _was_ keeping me on balance was the exceptional example that had been set for me over the years by one Lieutenant Colonel John Grey, my father.

It was an easy climb to the third floor where the Hunters had been occupying a small suite since their arrival in Philadelphia last November. Making my way down the back hallway, I patted the sheath under my coat. I had left my pistol in my saddlebag when I stabled my horse. I wasn't foolish enough to go completely unarmed. Fraser's dirk was in the sheath. In case this meeting went badly it would be justice to use his weapon to defend myself. After what the filthy Scotchman had done to Papa and Mother Claire, I trusted no one of his blood. I did hope it wouldn't come to that after my promise to Rachel. She was foolishly betrothed to the younger man who was as much savage as civilized. For her, I would avoid any violence, if I could.

At my knock, the door opened to reveal a smiling Denzel Hunter. He ushered me in and offered his hand, which I took gratefully. Across the tiny sitting room, Rachel and her savage stood stiffly in front of the small empty hearth.

"It is good to see thee again, Friend William." Turning to his sister, Denny said, "Shall we go to supper, Rachel?"

"I will stay here, Denny," Rachel declared in the stubbornly adamant tone she was known for.

I heard Denny sigh in resignation, not wanting to make a scene in this potentially volatile situation. I ground my teeth in disgust as Murray took Rachel's hand.

His usually intimidating tattooed face was set calmly. "Please go with Denny _mo luaidh_. Captain Ransom and I ha matters to discuss," and he kissed the back of her hand.

I knew the brazen show of affection was for my benefit. Automatically, I gritted my teeth so hard at Murray's display of possession, my jaw almost locked. When Rachel deliberately kissed his cheek, my hand went to the weight at my belt. There was no denying the fact that I still had strong feelings for the beautiful Quaker woman. Despite the reason, the days she had spent in my father's house had been special because of her presence. The restraint and tolerance I had learned from my father in situations like this one were barely keeping me from throttling the arrogant swine right then. His sling-covered left arm didn't make him less lethal than I knew he could be.

With Denny on one side taking her arm and Murray purposely easing away from her on the other, Rachel and her brother were soon out of the room. When he heard the door close firmly, Ian Murray turned to me. "Ye asked for this meeting, cousin. Please speak freely."

In a split second he and I were face to face. Since we were almost of a height, his hazel eyes glittered challengingly into mine. It was clearly time to set the rules of this meeting with no equivocation. "Don't _ever_ call me cousin again! I am William Ransom, Ninth Earl of Ellesmere. My father is Lord John Grey. You and your family are _nothing_ to me! Do we understand each other, Mr. Murray?"

"Aye, we do, _Captain Ransom_," he answered coldly.

Needing to break the roiling tension that had been surging through me, I backed away and sat in the chair near the hearth. To my surprise, my adversary pulled up a stool and sat opposite from me. His conciliatory gesture of placing us at an equal level was purely symbolic since the physical distance between us was so small in the cramped space.

There was no sense in delaying any further so I said, "You know my father was severely beaten and left for dead outside the city eleven days ago."

"Rachel told me. She also said ye believe it was my Uncle Jamie who did this thing."

Accepting the verbal cat and mouse game Murray had begun, I added firmly, "Not believe; I _know_ it was James Fraser who attempted to murder my father."

His silence told me he knew more than he would admit to by accepting my statement without argument. "Lord John is recovering?" he asked cautiously.

I was surprised he didn't know more from Rachel. Her brother also being a part of my father's medical care, he was highly scrupulous about his patient's privacy. Apparently, his rule applied to his sister as his nurse as well. "Slowly, with but one exception. My father's injuries have left him with no memory of what happened that day. As far as he knows, James Fraser drowned weeks ago when the _Euterpe_ was lost at sea. Since your uncle is dead to him, your aunt, Claire Fraser, is my father's legal wife."

My words hit a nerve. Perhaps it was as Mother Claire had described it, that Scotch streak of rabid possessiveness toward their women.

Murray leaned forward belligerently. "I wish to speak with my aunt!"

With relish, I said, "You will see her at the wedding."

Trying another tack, he demanded, "My uncle wants to see _his wife_."

"That is impossible. My stepmother has no desire to see your uncle ever again. She has retained a solicitor to execute a divorce action against him. If he is still in the city, she would appreciate it if he would meet with her attorney, Theodore Barnes, whose office is across from the State House, to sign the document which will end their marriage."

"You lie!" Murray shouted, "My aunt would never break the bond that exists between her and my Uncle Jamie!"

Ignoring the provocation, I answered flatly, " She would with just cause." The image in my mind of Claire being raped by her own husband twisted my stomach as it did each time I remembered it. Even worse was that image melding with the one I had created of my birth mother being violated by Alex MacKenzie.

"Ask your uncle what was said and done in the barn that night he brazenly came to abduct my stepmother. Despite being the dishonorable cur I know he is, he may have some small reserve of courage left to tell you the full truth of what he's done, past and present. If not, I will be more than pleased to describe what a despicable excuse for a man James Fraser actually is. Once you know the truth, you'll understand why we want my father to continue believing he's dead."

"As he's dead to you?" Ian Murray asked hostilely.

"Yes," I answered succinctly.

Murray's rage began to dissipate as if it was never there. In its place, his Indian nature created an alternate stoic face. Quietly, he asked, "What do ye want of me?"

I kept my face impassive despite my inward glow of victory over Ian Murray. "While you are in Lord John's home for his niece's wedding, you will avoid saying and doing _anything_ that will contradict my father's belief that James Fraser is dead. Whatever conversation you have with my stepmother is between the two of you, so long as it is done in complete privacy away from my father's hearing. Since Lord John and his future wife will be leaving for our plantation in Virginia soon after the wedding where they will be properly married, there will be no further need for your silence. Do I have your word on this, Mr. Murray?"

With a bare note of grudging acceptance, he answered, "Aye, ye do."

Seeing the stricken expression on the man's face, I felt no need to harp further on the issue. Reaching into my sleeve, I removed a handkerchief with the bear claw necklace wrapped in it, and tossed it to Murray. With perfect reflexes, his good hand caught the talisman he had given me after my adventure in the Great Dismal a year ago.

"Tell your uncle I burned the hat he gave me after Saratoga, and I _will_ keep my promise."

I stood, bowed curtly, turned my back and left the room.

* * *

Marsali had tenderly but adamantly herded my three eldest grandchildren upstairs to their beds. Knowing the late hour, I reluctantly surrendered a peacefully sleeping Henri-Christian from my right arm to hers. After her departure, I felt bereft again. The past twelve days since the beginning of my new penance had been far more painful than the deep cuts on my one good hand.

My sister Jenny's voice brought me back to the reality of the kitchen at the back of the printshop. "That should do ye. A fresh covering for your almost healed hand now that the stitches are out. Strange way ye must ha been holding your dirk to slice your skin in such a way."

As with most of Jenny's inquisitive comments since we had arrived in Philadelphia, I gave her no answer other than a grunt.

"Think ye kin keep that bandage clean, dear brother?"

"If my son and nephew take anymore time getting here, I will need another change."

"There still be patrols at night. The English may be leavin the city soon. That doesna mean they've stopped hunting ye. They'd dearly love to have your fat-heided self in their sites after what ye did to Lord John."

"Mmphm." This was another subject she wanted to know more about that I had no intention of explaining.

Into the heavy silence, Jenny Murray asked her most prodding question, "Are ye goin to speak about your son to me?"

"No," was my answer to that too familiar question, _again_.

"Why?"

"I have no son."

"Fool! If ye had claimed the boy when Lord John brought him to your place all those years ago, none a this would ha happened."

"How did ye know about that?" I asked angrily.

Her hands went to her hips in an old sign of defiance. "Unlike you, my son confides in me."

She still didn't know all the details of what had passed at Helwater so I was able to answer around it, "He'd be a bastard for all to see, Jenny. I didna want that for him."

"As big a shite as our grandsire Fraser was, he claimed our da and gave him his name. Ye should ha done the same."

"I thank ye for your kind understanding and comforting words, dear sister." Out of shame, I couldn't admit that I would never ha forced Claire to be reminded every day that I had bedded another woman who had given me the son my wife couldn't. To say those words aloud would ha given Jenny more cause to berate me. Our volatile tempers were already built up to a point where one more provocation would ha caused me to spill out the ugly truth of my past. With the look of him so strong, I couldna deny that William was my offspring. The when, where and, most of all, the how would stay only my business. The less Jenny and the rest of my family knew about William the better.

"He's the English lord's son, and that's the end of it?" she asked bitterly.

"Aye." To myself I added that it was much too late to play the loving father after what William had said to me in the barn that night. There were far too many lies on my soul to be forgiven.

The dull buzz of the whisky I had consumed before coming here was keeping my temper tentatively under control. The drinking had become a daily habit, a part of my penitential rite.

I could see the stubborn need for answers increase on my sister's face. That look had grown steadily over the days since I had shown up here, bleeding and angry after my clash with Claire. I had been able to divert her attention that night by instructing her in the proper way to clean and dress my hand, making a swift exit when she had completed her nursing. As my hand had healed, her compassion had given way to stark anger. I was shutting her out and she didna like it a bit. I reinforced my cold distance from her tartly curious tongue, partly out of pride, but mostly out of painful admission of what I had lost that night.

Before she could harangue me further into an inevitable shouting match I could see coming, there were two short quick raps at the back door. I held my breath waiting for the remainder of the signal. One soft rap and two more sharp knocks completed the sequence. Moving from the settle to the door, I threw the bolt and stepped back, my bandaged hand on my new dirk. The door opened slowly, and Fergus' dark head peeked around the edge of the aged wood. When he saw Jenny standing beside me, he opened the door further so his slender body could slip in. Immediately behind him, Ian followed like a shadow.

Having completed her motherly duties upstairs, Marsali hurried into the room and into her husband's arms. A short, sweet kiss then she asked, "Are ye hungry, love?"

Romantic Frenchman that he was, he answered, "For you, always, mon coeur." Their second kiss was longer, a promise of later passion.

The tall silent man with his arm in a sling who stood to the side kept his eyes away from my face. "Ian?" I called to my nephew to get his attention, wondering at the absence of his wolf companion, Rollo.

Hooded hazel eyes shifted and took in every aspect of my face, scars, lines and emotionless stare. "Uncle," came his cold reply.

Despite his years with the Mohawk, Ian's emotions were easily readable to me. What I saw in his look shouted of confusion. I could feel a thousand questions warring inside his taut body. Finally, he looked away to the other people in the room, unable and unwilling to hold my stare. His attempt to hide his feelings came too late. The set of anger in his lithe, slender body was overwhelming.

Jenny's puzzled expression sharpened as she glanced from her son to me and back to Ian. She chose to remain silent as she helped Marsali set the table and bring out what remained from the earlier supper with the children.

We were seated on the settles to either side of the table, except for Ian. He had drawn up a stool at the end of the table farthest from me.

Swallowing a mouthful of butter and garlic-drenched mussels from his bowl, Fergus said, "You asked for this meeting, milord. Why?"

"I will be returning to Fraser's Ridge by month's end."

"There be no reason for that, Da. Not with the British Army abandoning the city," Marsali said happily.

"You will no longer need to hide with the rats and mice in basements across Philadelphia." Laughing, Fergus added, "And neither will I," and he pulled Marsali closer with his remaining hand.

"There is still a war to finish there," I stated tersely.

"What of the printing press ye were so determined to bring over, Jamie?" Jenny prodded insistently.

"Ye wanted to do your writing, Da. What of that?"

"The press is yours and Fergus' so ye can expand the business. I have responsibilities to my people back on the Ridge."

Abandoning her silence, Jenny said harshly, "Liar. Ye want to get yerself killed like a true MacKenzie."

My older sister's voice was low but biting. The others simply stared at her. Only I knew the truth of what she said.

Into the charged silence, Ian's voice came as a shock after his mother's accusation against me. "Captain Ransom called ye a liar. I suspect his reasons are verra different from Mam's."

More shocked silence from Fergus, Marsali and Jenny. I had been a soldier and a fighter for too many years not to recognize defeat when I saw it coming.

Roughly, I asked, "When did ye speak with him, Ian?"

"Last night. Lord Ellesmere had a request of me."

"Which was?" I asked cautiously, controlling the stab of apprehension at what Ian's answer might be.

"Since I will be in his father's house for Denny and Dottie's wedding, he asked that I take a care in my conversations when his father is about."

"What sort of conversations?"

"Anything that would tell Lord John that ye are still alive."

My nephew was playing at a taunting word game that I kent might go on all night. My disintegrating patience wouldna allow for it. "Enough, Ian. Say what ye need to and get it over."

"Because of the beating ye gave Lord John, he has no memory of that day ye returned. He believes ye are dead still, and his son willna tell him the truth of it."

"Once the British Army has left, you can go to him and tell him the truth," Fergus stated bluntly.

"And apologize!" Jenny added sharply.

My body was becoming more besieged as each family member said their peace. Something in Ian's tight expression made me wait expectantly for his next words that I suspected would bring this all to a head.

With a cruel smirk so unlike his sweet soul, Ian said, "William called ye a coward. He said if ye didna tell the truth of what happened that night ye went to see Auntie Claire, he would be pleased to tell me what a dishonorable man ye truly are."

In what they thought was righteous anger, Jenny, Fergus and Marsali began shouting in response. I let it go on for a little time, all the while holding my nephew's hard-eyed look with my closed stare. Finally, I held up my hand for silence.

"Do ye believe what William Ransom has said of me?"

His tone bitter at my refusal to deny what he'd repeated of William's words, he gave the coup de grace I had been afraid of since that night. "Why else would Auntie Claire be divorcin ye after so long, and marryin Lord John when she goes with him to his plantation in Virginia?"

The reactions from the other three people in the room differed greatly.

Fergus' softly spoken, "Mon Dieu," was almost a prayer.

"Oh, Da," and Marsali reached across the table to cover my bandaged left hand.

Under her breath, Jenny's, "That filthy English bitch!" was the final straw.

My eyes focused completely on Ian, I said, "Ye all want the truth about my past, I'll give it." And I did.

Abandoning all my old, pathetic excuses, I lay naked and exposed to those I loved. My confession was resplendent in guilt and torment for my sins of rape, murder and mortal lies. Needing to put distance between the ones I could see still championed me, I rose and stood in front of Ian.

Disgust and betrayal thick in his voice, Ian stood and spoke to me through gritted teeth, "Lord John's son gave me a message to pass on. He burned the hat ye gave him after Saratoga, and he _will_ keep his promise."

From behind me, I heard Fergus ask curiously, "What was the promise, milord?"

I couldna help the harsh laugh that came from my throat. "If he ever sees me again, he will kill me. It is his right."

Knowingly, Jenny nodded, acknowledging the Highland justice behind William's promise. "For your rape and murder of his mother."

Taking a step closer, Ian's body was demanding more from me. "What of the present, Uncle? What is the just cause Auntie Claire has against ye?"

With a deep exhalation of surrender, I said those ugliest of words I had hoped to avoid, "Partly, there is her anger at my attempt on Lord John's life, and my lies that broke our marriage night vow of honesty. Mostly, it is the means I used to reclaim my wife. I took Claire there on the barn floor while she struggled and begged me to stop hurting her."

Fergus' usually accepting Gallic manner was subsumed by a cold rage he rarely expressed. "You raped your lady wife as you did the English slut."

If I had been younger and less despondent, I would ha seen Ian's fist come up sooner. I moved aside just in time to avoid his clenched hand connecting directly with my nose. The powerful impact of his fist did meet the side of my mouth. I felt my lower lip split and the crack of a tooth. Into the frozen silence and lack of movement in the room, I spit a mouthful of blood and the shard of tooth into my hand.

With his heavy breaths of boiling rage, Ian said, "William Ransom called ye rightly. Ye are a miserable excuse for a man, Jamie Fraser."

The back door slamming behind him in his righteous anger, Ian was gone from the printshop. Rollo's deep barks of camaraderie followed his master's loud footfalls down the back alley. I looked from one face to the other wondering what I would see.

Tears in her eyes, Marsali folded herself into her husband's chest. Shaking his head disbelievingly, Fergus said, "I owe you my life many times over, milord. But this crime against milady…" Standing, he took Marsali's hand. "You are free to visit your grandchildren, of course. Only make sure I am not at home when you are here." With a look of grave disgust, he and Marsali left the room.

Claire had refused to forgive me this time. Alone with my sister, I awaited her judgment.

"May God have mercy on your soul, Jamie Fraser," and she was also gone.

Now I was truly damned.

Grabbing a towel from the counter, I pressed it to my mouth. My slouch hat pulled low over my face, I was several deserted streets into the darkness before the blood stopped pumping freely. I had a near full bottle of whiskey at my last bolthole hiding place. The alcohol would disinfect this new injury. It might even soothe some of the pain in my body, pain that Claire's gifted hands had always made go away with her touches. I knew the whisky would never extinguish the pain in my leprous soul.


End file.
